At dinner one evening: my maternal grandparents get into an argument over a certain indentation in Granddad’s head, which he believes resulted from a recent head injury. But Grandmom assures the rest of the family that the dent has always been there, just behind his ear; she remembers it. And this seems to me a perfect illustration of a 60+ year marriage: knowledge of {and gentle disagreements about} another’s skull formation. Maybe love is just having someone who knows your weird head better than you do.

In the public libraries of my youth: I read The Hunger Games {which I CAN’T EVEN TALK ABOUT; I can only fiercely chomp bread and mutter unintelligibly about the wondrousness of Peeta} and write letters. It’s like sending telegrams from the mother ship. There’s an older library employee with scrunchy, too-short pants and a curly mane of hair who continually dis-and-reappears from behind unmarked doors. He bobs between shelves with a buoyant step, as if he might lift off at any moment — a Dewey Decimal-fueled rocket ship.

At a New Year’s Eve party: a beloved four year-old holds my hand and says, “You didn’t know me when I was a baby. But when I was a baby, I missed you so much.” Later, during a game of Twister, he informs me that he’s a tiger, and tigers don’t have to follow rules in games or life.

Seems like sound logic for 2012. Want to be a tiger with me?

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