This is from mah momma.

April 3rd, 2002

They might have been twins, but they couldn’t have been any more different. She was a fighter. That was a fact. It was one of those things written throughout the pages of history. Zoe Lyn, the Fighter.

    I remember one day I was making Flap Jacks for the children. They were both at the table awaiting their golden breakfast. George was next to her and they were sharing the syrup just as usual. When their Father came in, he snagged a Flap from atop of George’s plate. Now, as quiet and to himself as he was, said nothing. But his sister would not stand for it. She placed all three Flap Jacks unto her other half’s plate, stood up, and confronted her Father.
    “What do you think you’re doing?” She said.
    With a full mouth he answered, “Eatin’. Now get back in your seat.”
    “I don’t think so! Those are Georgie’s and you know it! Now I demand you give that back this instant.” At that time the Flap had been almost half way finished. But my little Zoe Lyn was determined.
    She snatched the Flap Jack out her Father’s hand before he could say anything more, and went back to the table. I was cleaning the dishes at the time and could do nothing more but laugh. I turned around and saw George sitting jaw to the floor as his sister came back with his meal. She was a fighter. In fact, it took so much for her to make her give up, that no one dared to try. Zoe Lyn fought until the only option was to give up. And that was never the case.

She was extraordinary I tell you. And I knew the day I held her in my arms for the first time, that she would accomplish extraordinary things. And as she grew older, it became more and more apparent. Maybe it was the way the sun caught her hair, lighting up her face and making those big, honey coloured eyes pop from her pale skin. She was magical. Every time I looked at her, I saw a different future. An astronaut, a doctor, a teacher. No, not a teacher. Her brilliance shouldn’t be wasted on something like that. And then one day, there it was, clear as day.

A writer.

She was smarter than I was with words. She had a way of saying things so when they were meant to be offensive, all you were able to do was sway to the beautiful rhythm of the words. Her vocabulary was outstanding. Her pronunciations precise. It was quite obvious she was my daughter.

    I took so much pride in that. She was my daughter. Nothing would change that. I’ve only known her for seven years, but those are years I wouldn’t take back if I had the choice.
    There was another time when we were in Paris that I remember. We were at my parent’s home, staying for the holidays. They lived near a small pond with fish and small frogs. She loved those frogs.
    It was snowing, but the pond hadn’t frozen over just yet. Zoe Lyn was sitting with George on the dock that lead into the pond. Those two were in separable. Hand in hand wherever they went. And I mean that quite literally.
    But they were sitting there together watching as the ducks landed on the water. The pond was local so there were plenty of people around. One of them homeless, lying on a small bench, much too small for his wide stature. They didn’t quite understand the meaning of not having a home. They were five and a half. But both knew the man had a limited amount of clothing and food. It was George who had the idea, and Zoe Lyn added to it. He ran inside the house and pulled up a stool, reaching to the far back corner of one of the cabinets. A hot cocoa pouch in his hand, he  got a mug, and followed the directions. Not a word was exchanged between the two of us as I watched in awe as my five year old children did something you didn’t see everyday. Outside of the window I watched Zoe Lyn give up her brand new coat and mittens to the man on the bench. I saw her mouth the words “Here, I think you need these more than I do. I hope these help.”
    The man gave the biggest smile I think I’ve ever seen on a person. And he wore it with such poise and grace. He hugged my daughter and thanked her dearly. George soon followed with his cocoa.
    I remember that day like it was just this past day. The man was happy. Maybe for the first time in a very long while. And my two children, at the age of five, had been the cause of it.
    At this point, my heart can’t be any bigger. My smiles, can’t be any wider. And my love, any stronger. My kids are my everything.