I call him Bud. He calls me Chayda. We get along for the most part, and it’s a good thing we do because we spend a lot of time together. We’re friends, but we’re not alike. He’s a boy; I’m a girl. He’s short; I’m tall. He’s blond; I’m brunette. His eyes are blue; mine are green. He’s a baby; I’m supposed to be grown up.

He’s lived twenty three months. I’ve lived twenty three years. There is so much I could teach him, so many things he needs to learn. But while I am showing him new things and unveiling the world to him, he is simply reminding me of things I knew once but have forgotten.

“Hold hands,” he says, and puts his chubby fist in mine. And suddenly instead of me simply following him around the yard, we are walking together, and sometimes I am leading him, but usually he is leading me.

I come to his house to take care of him, to play with him, to teach him. But while I am teaching him, he is also teaching me. And it is the differences between us that teach me the most. . . ...continue reading →