How Do You Measure Eleven?

This was 11. The year you grew maybe an inch in height. Not so much really compared to all the years that came before, but then again who really measures growth in inches?

Eleven was the year you faced camp, for the first time on your own. A week with friends and it was glorious, or so I am told daily as the camp countdown begins another year. This was the year you finished grade six. The year I had to pull you out of school for two whole weeks because of a terrible fit between you and a classmate. The year you had to be moved to a different class despite the teacher you adored. Because three separate teachers told me what they saw happening at school. The year we both stood up and walked and said Fix it. The year you met resilient and shook its hand.

The year you learned to knit and build a circuit. Your front crawl improved. Your silliness peaked. Your dramatic side blossomed. You schooled us all in epic oddball trivia. Mom, did you know millipedes fall asleep with eyes open? And eagles mate for life?

This was the year you parasailed and zip lined and hiked. You tackled low ropes and high ropes and sang solos beautifully and moved easily into the role of cousin to one more little person. The year you did more than your share of crafts, and fit a size six women’s shoe. The year you spent far too much time tinkering on an iPhone and arguing with your sister. The year you read about 300 books.

Eleven was the year our hearts shattered when someone dear to us passed away. It was the year we held her hand and said good bye. The year you spoke a eulogy at her funeral and remembered the weekend she took you to The Butterfly Conservatory. The year we all tried to pick up the pieces and move forward missing a piece of our hearts. Eleven.