“You’re not made of mud.” “No?” “You are made of flowers,” she said decisively, crawling onto my lap. She was getting too heavy to do so, but I sat back without protest and let her anyway, stroking her soft hair, inhaling the sweet milk scent of her skin. I would protect her with my life, I thought to myself. “And rainwater. And silk. And lanterns. You are made of good things.”
