Here is Little Miss M in the big city, sporting her tired face, knowing, at only three months old, that chicks do indeed rock. We wait for her to laugh, to roll over, to get to where she needs to go. And she does need to get somewhere because we watch her on her little mat, huffing and puffing and squirming with all the determination in the world. And we know, like Dr. Suess does, that, oh, there are places she’ll go.
“You realize she’s yours, right?” I tell Lynn, who it seems just yesterday sat in Professor Shanahan’s communications class with me, who lived in Eco house, who drank whole pints, and dated the DJ. The girl whose name was always uttered in conjunction with mine. And, ironically, forever will be because I am (quite literally) Melissa Lynn.