“You think … I don’t like you?” “Do you?” There’s so much vulnerability in her question, so much raw emotion, fear twining with the glow of hope. I gently massage her shoulders, strong but so small underneath my palms. “Willa, yes. You are …” I search for words. I wish I had the exact ones to explain the way I’m so impressed by her. Enamored. Her bravery in wanting to help me after I’ve been so snappish with her. The skill of her creativity and her ability to make sugar into actual art. Her humor and kindness. “You are so Willa—as in Willa. Not Willow.”
