Note: Ella likes her pencils sharp.

Note: Ella likes her pencils sharp. At this point in the day my intellect adores the concrete, the tangible, the attainable. Note: Ella likes her pencils sharp.

Mindlessly, I manipulate the litter in my pocket—scavenged bits off the classroom floor. There a levelheaded, copper-headed Lincoln pleads with the mating paper clips, begging them to promptly unlink. While drenched in the cumbersome collection of classroom chatter, my fingers fidget with the frustratingly entangled paper clips. It’s all a puzzle. And the only piece that I really understand is that Ella likes her pencils sharp.

I have questioned the depth of her soul, even debated it over sushi with a friend. Became entrenched in philosophical conversations, imprecise banter made manageable by theoretical lingo and something about her ‘essence’. I have questioned the depth of her soul; have contemplated the rainbows that she draws. Is that her soul’s light I see, refracted through prismatic labyrinths and falling through the crayons onto bent corners of her lined paper? I dig for significance in those colorful representations. Are they imitations of blissful realities, of familiarity; or do they signal a severe drought of creativity? Can I venture to suspect that they are the multi hued expressions of her spirit?

Her parents call her the “la-la” child. I secretly call her the “la-la” child. And the only thing I really know is that she likes her pencils sharp. Yes. She chronically needs a pointed tip—even when she does not write much, even though her thoughts pour dully from her.

“Look! She’s smiling at me!” Ella points at her caterpillar in animated awe. Annabelle, they have decided to call it. Annabelle is apparently a toothy-grinned, expressively joyful caterpillar.

“Caterpillar’s don’t smile,” I wanted to shoot back.

I’m taken aback by my abruptness, taken aback by the brutality of my own mind’s voice and the crushing posture that it has assumed. Have I become a soul-squasher, a dream-stomper, a mind-dampener?

Caterpillars do smile. Maybe? Maybe my ability to see a caterpillars smile is a measure of the depth of my own soul. At least I know that she likes her pencils sharp. And that will have to be enough for now.