She balances delicately, one foot not quite touching the ground, ready for takeoff.
Mother-daughter alchemy has spun balloons, toilet paper rolls, plaster strips and the end of a Sonic cup into something altogether unworldy.
A flying pig.
Tomorrow, we shall paint her purple with silver sparkly wings.
Thirteen is not easy. Not for you, not for me. Rough waters bubbling with independence and new worries and hormones, oh my Lord, the hormones.
But perhaps, in the midst of everything, you will remember that this Saturday night, we giggled and told stories, and carefully wrapped plaster straps around balloons.
And together, created something impossibly wonderful.