Book 15: She's Like Me

Blake

Skye has said four words to me over the course of the afternoon. It’s not weird, I suppose. She doesn’t know me. She’s only seven, too, and doesn’t yet understand that we’re the same, and our view of the world is strikingly different compared to the people we love.

Leona didn’t give me a choice about staying for lunch, which Marianna and I didn’t have the stomach to touch as it stands. She’s currently in the house with Leona, doing what, I don’t know, but I’m sitting on the grass with my seven-year-old daughter who doesn’t know anything about our connection, and maybe that’s a good thing. I don’t really think she’d care, to be honest.

What she cares about is rocks.

She hands me another rock which I dutifully split into pieces with the hammer resting against my thigh. She hums her disappointment when there’s not an agate inside, which is what she’s looking for, I think. The pile of rock discard is growing to the point it’ll wreck a lawnm