Katherine's fingers pressed into her knees.
"Greta lost her first tooth tonight."
I turned another page.
First bicycle ride. Greta kept looking back to make sure I could see.
First dance recital. Amelia forgot the steps and bowed anyway.
Science fair.
Snow day.
Stomach flu.
First school dance.
"Amelia forgot the steps and bowed anyway."
The margins became narrower as the years passed. I had written wherever paper remained, between trees, beneath pictures, along the fox's tail.
Katherine touched one note.
Greta asked why Mommy left. Told her it was your story to tell one day, Katherine.
Her finger stayed there.
"I didn't know you wrote these."
Her finger stayed there.
"I wasn't writing them for you, Katherine."
I closed my hand over one wheel.
Then I continued more carefully.
"I started because the days blurred together after the accident. Medicine. Therapy. Work. Bottles. I was afraid I'd forget which parts belonged to which girl."
