We weathered the storm, the Little Girl and I.
With popcorn, doughnuts, and Disney, we got through Irene and her witchy machinations.
It wasn’t always easy. My daughter was upset, her fears from the rattling windows manifesting themselves in disparate ways: She began crying that she’s embarrassed that she still rides a bike with training wheels; she said that she misses my mother, dead for four years.
I diverted her by playing “Sorry.” We blew bubbles. We got through.
Our small apartment has always been a shelter. Through the first days of divorce, the changes and the life adjustments, my South Jersey place has been where the Little Girl and I figured things out.
For our nearly six years there, her needs preoccupied me, and I learned to dedicate myself to her. We huddled close in the tiny space, forging our new family. It’s always been a safe place out of the wind.
“It’s so good to be home,” she has said, time and again, as I've locked the door behind us and turned on the lights.
To be honest, the apartment is beginning to feel too tiny as the Little Girl accumulates glittery, pink, fluffy stuff. We’ll have to move soon.
But for the rest of my life, I’ll not forget what it felt like when Irene raged and my daughter sat on my lap and sang Selena Gomez songs, finally fine, warm, and dry in our sanctuary.