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Homework

In spite of the usually soothing story, Brenna keeps fidgeting and finally sits up.

 

“What’s wrong Brenna?” I ask.

 

“I can’t sleep.”

 

“Just lay down.”

 

“I can’t.”

 

“Brenna,” I insist, “lay down.”

 

She does and I begin softly rubbing her arm, which I know relaxes her.

 

“My palm,” she mumbles sleepily after a minute, turning her hand over so I can gently rub there too.

 

Something about a child’s hands is so endearing. They tell a story of life and lineage. I remember her hands so tiny and soft, now thick and toughened by gymnastics, but still those of a child, innocent and vulnerable.

 

Morning comes at what time I don’t know. We slept well except for a couple times in the dark when we heard several trucks passing, probably more fire crews.

 

We lie there a few minutes before Brenna opens a book she brought for some assigned reading.

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Taken on September 9, 2018