Letters from Tiny Roads

Dear Mrs. Helen,

I am writing you this letter from my car seat. Mom says I have to wait until we stop for the night before I can send anything, but I don't care about her rules right now. I have important things to tell you.

First, my name is Aurora. I am ten months old. That is almost a whole year, which Mom says is a big deal. She keeps crying about it. I don't know why. I'm the one who has to learn how to walk.

Second, we are in North Carolina. We got here three days ago. Before that we were in Virginia. Before that we were in something called Pennsylvania. Before that I was too small to remember. Dad says we are full-time RVers. That means our house is a big white box on wheels and it shakes when we drive. I hate the shaking. Tobias, my brother, loves it. He screams every time we hit a bump. He is four years old and has too much energy.

Mrs. Helen, I have enclosed a photograph for you. It is a picture of me sitting in the grass at our campsite. You can see the RV in the background. It looks like a marshmallow. Mom says that's a good thing because marshmallows are soft and sweet. I think it looks like a giant pill we are supposed to swallow. I do not trust it.

Tobias is in the picture too. He is making a face. He always makes faces. He stuck his finger in my mouth right after Mom took the photo. I bit him. He cried. Mom said I shouldn't bite my brother. But he put his finger in my mouth. That is his fault, not mine. I am learning about cause and effect.

The campsite we are at has a lake. Mom took me down to the water yesterday. She held me on her hip and let me stick my toes in. The water was cold. I kicked. She laughed. Then a duck swam up and I screamed because it was too close and its beak looked sharp. Mom laughed harder. She said I was being dramatic. I do not know what dramatic means but I think it means brave and scared at the same time. That is how I feel most of the time.

Dad says we are staying here for two whole weeks. That is a long time in RV years. Tobias asked if we could get a pet. Mom said no. Tobias asked if we could get a fish. Mom said no. Tobias asked if we could get a rock and name it. Mom said yes. So now we have a rock named Gerald. Gerald lives on the dashboard. He does not move. He is the perfect pet.

I have enclosed a small piece of bark for you. I found it on the ground while Mom was making dinner. She was making something called chili. It smelled like beans and fire. I do not eat beans yet. I eat something called puree. It is brown and comes in a pouch. I squeeze it into my mouth. Mom calls it dinner. I call it survival.

Tobias does not eat puree. He eats pizza. He eats chicken nuggets. He eats macaroni and cheese. He is living the dream. I watch him from my high chair and I plot. I am learning to walk so I can steal his pizza. That is my motivation.

Mrs. Helen, I need to tell you something important. Yesterday Mom and Dad had a fight. They tried to hide it. They went outside and whispered. But I have good ears. I heard everything.

Mom said she was tired. Dad said he was tired too. Mom said she missed her friends. Dad said he missed his friends too. Mom said she wanted a real kitchen. Dad said he wanted a real paycheck. Then they stopped talking. They stood there looking at the lake. Mom was crying. Dad put his arm around her. She leaned into him. They stood like that for a long time.

I do not know what a real kitchen is. Our kitchen is small but it works. Mom makes pancakes in it. She makes coffee. She makes magic. I do not understand why she would want a different one.

But I saw her face. I saw the way her shoulders dropped. I saw the way Dad held her like she might float away. And I realized something, Mrs. Helen. Grown-ups are not done being sad. They just hide it better than me.

I cried for ten minutes yesterday because a leaf touched my nose. Mom cried because she wanted a kitchen. We are the same.

I have enclosed a leaf for you. It is red and yellow. It is not the one that touched my nose. That one I ate.

Today we went to a place called a state park. Dad put me in a carrier on his chest. We walked on a trail. The trees were tall. The sky was blue. Tobias ran ahead and fell three times. The third time he scraped his knee. He cried. Mom kissed it. He stopped. That is the power of a mother's kiss. I am learning.

Halfway through the hike, Dad stopped. He pointed at something in the trees. It was a deer. A real deer. It was brown and still and watching us. Tobias whispered, "Is it real?" Dad whispered back, "Yes." The deer looked at me. I looked at the deer. Neither of us moved. Then the deer turned and walked away. It was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. And I could not grab it. I could not put it in my mouth. I could only watch.

That is what this life is, I think. Watching beautiful things walk away.

But then we got back to the RV and Mom made pancakes. And Tobias put Gerald the rock in my hand. And Dad sang a song about a bear who could not find his shoes. And I laughed. I laughed so hard milk came out of my nose.

So maybe the watching is worth it.

Mrs. Helen, I do not know you. Mom found your name on a website for lonely seniors. She said you needed a pen pal. She said I could be that pen pal. I do not know what lonely means. But I know what it feels like to be small and want someone to talk to. So I am writing you this letter.

I am ten months old. I live in a box on wheels. I have a brother who puts his fingers in my mouth. I have a mother who cries in the dark. I have a father who sings about bears. I have a rock named Gerald.

And I have you.

I will write you again next month. I will be eleven months old then. I will know more things. I will have more adventures. I will send you more pieces of the world.

Until then, I am your friend.

Aurora

P.S. Mom helped me spell the big words. But the feelings are mine.