where I have a mouse wearing a tiara, her signature on any street art we’d do together. She traces each one she can reach, even the pieces I’ve drawn, like the one of the barn house, the design on her locket, and the trip we did to Yellowstone—which she hated because of how much walking we had to do, but loved because she was stalked by a stray cat for three hours. She called herself a cat mom for a solid month after. “Do they have meaning?” she whispers as her hand skates over a fox. “Yes.” She looks up at me through her lashes. “Why did you get them?” “So when you look at me, there isn’t an
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