And she had to know the value of things.
A TV wasn’t something to be protected because it was worthless away from electrical sockets and satellites. A mattress wasn’t special because it could never come with us when we ran.
But food? That was infinitely precious.
Our tent? That was priceless.
She might be young, but she was never too young to learn those lessons, and I gave her no leeway when it came to learning them.
She could cry all she wanted. She could hate me for days. We could fight until I stalked from the house and slept in the barn, but she would never win with me.
I was older.
I was in charge.
But I was also aware I was everything she had and wouldn’t jeopardize that for anything.
Once the fire in her baby blue eyes simmered and the rage in my blood cooled, we’d awkwardly sit on our hay bale couches and slowly trade stiffness for solidarity.
She’d inch closer toward me with her ribbon trailing after her, and I’d open my arm for her to wedge tightly against me.
And there we’d sit, our apologies silent but completely heart-felt and true. I knew it was wrong to find such comfort in the sharp relief and drowning affection that came after an ugly fight, but I’d never had the aftermath before.
I’d had the shouting, the screaming, the striking, the kicking, but I’d never been held afterward or kissed on the cheek by an adoring little girl.
Just like we could cause each other’s grief, we had the power to raise the stars. When Della was happy, I was happy. Her smile was infectious. Her eagerness to learn an absolute gift when I was desperate to teach.
To teach the opposite of what I’d been taught.
But I was also keenly aware that what I had to teach was extremely limited.
One dark winter’s night, Della flicked through the TV stations at warp speed. We didn’t get many channels due to bad reception, but sometimes, the weather allowed a snippet of movies and cooking shows, and now, a kid’s channel.
She squealed and bowled toward me where I sat on the couch carving a stick into a lynchpin to be used as a new hinge in the gate I’d repurposed to keep critters out of our veggie patch. My knife scraped and shavings littered the floor.
Quickly, I palmed the sharp blade so she wouldn’t impale herself as she bounced into my lap. I laughed and looked up at the bright TV where fake puppets and badly drawn cartoons wriggled around like idiots.
“Ren, look!” She waggled her ribbon-clutching fist at the TV. “Toons!”
“Cartoons.” I pushed her gently off my lap so she sat beside me on the couch. It wasn’t that I didn’t like being touched; I just became overwhelmed whenever she did. It’d gotten to the point where I was afraid that one day, I wouldn’t be able to breathe unless she touched me all the time.
She was my one weakness, and I was determined to stay immune to her for her own protection.
The TV squawked some stupid song, parading out knives and forks and bowls and fruit, flashing letters on the screen and screaming the name along with it.
Della jiggled to the song, repeating household items.
I returned to my carving, keeping one eye on her and one eye on whittling.
Time ticked on, and we fell into a comfortable rhythm; that was until Della exploded from the couch and ran to skid to her butt in front of the TV. Her little eyes danced over the brightness, her fingers drawing in the air the letter on the screen.
“A is for apple. A is for ape. A is for a great big albatross. Can you say albatross?” The cartoon puppet blinked as if we were a bunch of morons who couldn’t say A.
I rolled my eyes, then froze solid as Della yelled, “Albwatloss.” Turning to face me, she pointed excitedly at the screen. “Ren! A. It’s A for appwle.” She stood and traced the letter on the screen, then twirled around with her blonde ringlets bouncing and her blue ribbon twirling.
My heart stopped with how perfect she was. How smart. How kind. How brave. I’d never look at the colour blue again without thinking of her. I’d never hold another ribbon again without wanting to hold her.
Up until that moment, I’d kept a hardness inside me.
I’d treated her dearly, but I’d kept a piece of myself tucked away. But there, as she repeated the alphabet and started to excel me in every way, she nicked the fortress around my stupid heart, and I had no choice but to give it to her.
She was my Della, my ribbon, and I couldn’t stop myself as I placed the knife back into its holder in my boot, crawled across the floor, and sat beside her.
She beamed and pointed at the letter S on the screen.