“Hi Elizabeth!”  I heard as my daughter and I were shopping in a local chain store. I stopped in my tracks. What? Who said that to my daughter? We just moved to the area and hardly knew anyone, so how could there already be someone who knew my daughter by name in a store around here? And then I looked up and saw her. It was the sweet tween girl from our neighborhood who had played with Elizabeth, just several days before. They had jump roped together outside, just down the street from our house. Her name was Samantha. She went by Sam. She was several years older than my daughter – definitely old enough to be “too cool” to give a 9-year-old the time of day. And yet, Sam had stopped riding her scooter that afternoon when she saw my daughter struggling to jump rope across the street, and she sweetly offered to teach her how to skip rope. She patiently stayed and played with Elizabeth for at least a half hour. And the whole time, I could not get over how kind and polite she was. She was...

I sit in the rolling chair at Sadie’s nail station and get myself comfortable. I always look forward to this bi-monthly treat! Sadie comes out from the break room and sits down, throws out a “hi” and we exchange pleasantries- about how it’s been seven weeks since I last saw her, and since that was just before Valentine's Day, I ask if she did anything special. She doesn’t answer me, and then I realize she’s got one side of her earphones in and she might be listening to something; unfortunately, this is the usual routine, so I just let her do her work. Why do I hope this will change?

Several minutes pass. I ask, “Do you think of yourself as an artist?“ No response. I do think Sadie is an artist because she makes my hands look pretty and my nails neat, fresh, and colorful. My hands have always been a part of my body that I don’t like. Maybe this is why I used to walk with my hands balled in a fist- hiding my fingers & nails, trying to make them invisible. I’ve had people through the ...