“Trunk,” I would say, or leaves, a branch, a twig, flower.
The second time Josephine inquired about a tree, I would have to be more specific. And so I added a rule to complicate it-I would give the same answer only once per outing. It was one of those awful bargains you find yourself striking as a parent: If you agree not to scream, I will allow you to suck the life out of me with this horrible and stultifying game. “That?” she would ask/command, extending an imperious finger. Her favorite word by far was “that,” usually uttered in a tone both interrogative and imperative. For one thing, she’d ask me to name everything she saw. But she also had a few unforgivable flaws. When she smiled, her eyes turned from thoughtful to impish, her cheeks dimpled, and she exposed the top four of her six teeth. Hen my daughter, Josephine, was one year old, she had vanishingly pale eyebrows and hair that had grown into stylish jags.
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