The backyard of my youth was in the heart of North Portland. Green and large with life, boxed in, hidden. It housed my father’s woodshop, a boat, a wild cocker, and the garden. The garden that my father fenced in post by post and seeded. Each section divided in order that the proper amount of light and moist would touch down.
It was a masterpiece.
He built a corner entirely devoted to the sun complete with two benches engraved each with his daughter’s names,
mine misspelled.
He and my mother would spend entire weekends in the yard, deep in dirt, talking and laughing along to the radio
blaring classic rock.
I remember that yard so clearly.
I remember its beginning without an end.
I remember the shorts my dad wore, and my mother’s torn Oregon Zoo tank top. My dad’s huge flip flops and my sister running around bare… and me
in the sun trying to construct a time machine out of a cardboard box, desperately trying to find my way out.
Mostly though, I remember my name carved, Noel.

Sophia
You are one month plus some old. You are Fussbudget, and Soapie to some. You are your father’s Frog, and your mommy’s Bird. You are the purpose and meaning of our being, our Professor.
Every day I fear that your head might pop off. I fear that in sleep you will drift and drop off your dream’s edge. And already my dear, I fear, you are growing too fast.
You have begun the mold of your smile. You grin. You wink in glee and your lips puck at the seams. Occasionally you look like our own miniature version of Walter Matthau, the grumpy old man version.
You have so much to say and I wait in tense anticipation for your first words knowing full well that they, like you, will be brilliant and breathtaking. You move your lips with mine and stick out your tongue to push the words along. Surely your first word will be a sentence and somewhere in that sentence the word boob will fall.
You sleep often, and you dream. You wave your fists and mumble. You smile sweetly and laugh. I try to wake you but it only serves to disturb your splendor, so despite the books read, and advice spewed I sit quietly and watch you.
We dance every day, you and I. You prefer Chris Isaac over Baby Bach and Ella over Billie. You are of Bart and I though, so tastes will surely change, but talk radio will remain.
You are every reason I will ever have to breathe. You are my greatest success, my heart, and my world.
I love you.
Mom

Sophia Jane

aka FussBucket, Soapie, Professor, Frog, BIRD.