I am thankful for kitty purrs and coconut-milk desserts and dinners with friends. I still love the feeling of driving over the I-55 bridge over the Mississippi River, and I still am secretly thrilled when Jeff approves of something that I do. I still can't remember the name of all the reindeer without singing them, and I think it's funny that this year is the first year, ever, that my father has put Christmas lights on his house.

I was thirteen on the day that my parents heard the sounds coming from the woodpile. At first, they weren't sure what they were hearing, but after a day or two, they became certain that what they were hearing was probably a kitten.

Dear Edmund and Tenzing—

I know that you can't read, so I am trusting that you will use your superkitty powers to absorb the contents of this letter through your amazing (and easily-demonstrated) mindlink powers with Amy. Since the two of you always seem to know each other's thoughts, I'm going to assume that now would be no exception and just send this letter to her.

A lot of the time, I write here about the serious, the thoughtful, the life-changing.

Tonight: the silly.

So I finally get to talk to Aaron, to get times and details hammered out for my trip (huzzah! he doesn't care if I go gallivanting about on my own!). In preparation, I spread out papers and such in the guest bedroom.

Immediately, Tenzing does his patented chirrup-hop! onto the bed, looks at my papers, and starts sniffing balefully. The mixed suspicion and curiosity were plain to see.

A world is a very large, yet very small, concept for a child. Vast, in that there are untold many things that children realize they do not know—how to drive a car, the intricacies of insurance, the difference between a first cousin and a first-cousin-once-removed. Yet small, in a way that most adults cannot grasp: for them it's easy to believe that it's still possible to know everything there is to know.

Softly, quietly: 'Mrow?' So quiet that I can barely hear it.

I look up. I talk to Edmund a lot, mostly because he acts interested when I do, and often chirrups back at me. Our 'conversations' are short, and usually have to do with whatever action I'm doing at the time.