Fondly,

Emma Silver

I know my mom says I shouldn’t always need outside approval to feel proud of myself. But I’ve also learned that in relationships a little acknowledgment of everyone appreciating each other goes a long way. After I read Ms. Silver’s note through a few times, I fold it carefully and tuck it into the box Max’s Lego airplane came in, where I’ve been saving things that are really important to me.

The day before I leave for sleepaway camp, I spend the afternoon playing with Max. Two huge duffel bags I packed with my mom are already in the trunk of her car, ready for us to take to the bus in the morning, and my knapsack is open by my bed, ready to throw in any last-minute things. I take down my bin of dolls, and Max and I give them names and story lines. He goes to get some of his own figurines to give us more variety and characters. The dolls and figures go on a trip to Miami in the Lego airplane. Two little figures we call Ollie and Oskie are the flight attendants, offering the passengers beverages that they dump on their heads and say, “All keen now!”

I show Max my apron fabric, which is still in the basket. “Maybe I’ll use this to make airline uniforms the next time we do this,” I tell him.

“You could do that?” he says.

“Sure,” I say.

“Wow,” he says, and throws his arms around me in a fierce hug.

“I’ll do it when I get back from camp,” I promise, giving him a tight squeeze back.

Then his friend’s mom comes to pick up Max for a playdate, and my mom is in her office studying and all I can hear is the buzz of the air conditioners, so I grab something from our utility drawer and run over to the Wines’.

When I get there, Honey is on the front porch working a screwdriver into the door.

“Great minds think alike.” I grin.

“Yup,” she agrees, even though she doesn’t know what I’m talking about. She steps back to admire her handiwork. The door knocker is now back on the door. It is slightly lopsided but looks secure.

“Nice job,” I say.

“Well, enough was enough,” she says, hands on her hips. “Someone had to do it, and like usual, that someone is me.” She grins. “And I’m avoiding packing.” She raises her eyebrows, and I raise my mine right back.

“Fine, I’ll help you,” I grant with pretend-grudging generosity.

“It’s just the Shabbos outfits and what goes with what that I hate doing, everything else is done,” she says.

“Okay, don’t worry,” I say. “But first we need to take care of something else.” I look at her screwdriver and the now-anchored door knocker. “Is the lady with the balloons still broken?”

“Is this the Wine family you’re talking about?” she laughs. “What do you think?”

I take that as a yes, which is what I was pretty sure the answer would be considering I check on the china cabinet every time I am over. Mrs. Wine says that stuff is just stuff, but that sometimes it is also the ties that form who we are. I have realized that it is good to have choices, and the freedom to make them. But not everybody is so lucky to also have connections—visible and invisible—to family, to friends, to faith, that give us an anchor even as we explore the vast ocean of possibilities in the journey to becoming ourselves. So I am doing this for Mrs. Wine, and for Daisy, and also for myself. I pull the super glue out of my pocket.