You were my one parent that knew how to be a kid. I knew the endless joy of large mound of dirt. You knew that living life in this insane world could be done with style and flair. You taught me that these things go hand in hand.

You taught me to believe in myself and be my own best friend, as I showed you how to tunnel under the boundary lines that separated the territory of a half-gallon ice cream container. You taught me to be bold, I told you to shut up. You taught me that being strong didn’t mean you couldn’t cry, I tried to remind you of this, when your mother died.

We had a date, you and I. We had a date with a creek, some frogs, and a pile of mud. I know that we should run to the nearest mud puddle and have our fun. You have also taught me that it will probably never happen.

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