I

Sitting on the wooden floor of my bedroom, which has not yet been painted gray, I lay a picture book across my pretzel legs.

I am between two twin beds, facing a small bookshelf, made of dark brown wood and somewhat ornate, though rather petite. I believe it was built by my great grandfather, Gunnard Wanhala. The beds have tiny, light blue gingham print, with small yarn-knots, like a quilt, which resemble small peach-colored flowers, to my eye. There is a window above the bookcase, which faces the bright green forest. It is Summer, afternoon, and golden light streams down onto my book.

The objects in the room are huge to me, from my floor-bound perspective.

I have a pencil, which feels like rubber in my right hand as I attempt to write on the paper cover of the book, which gives way against my knee. I feel frustrated and am concentrating very deeply. I can picture how my name looks when my mother, Lisa, writes it, and attempt to lay claim to my book by labeling it.

Much later, when I was maybe 6 or 7, I found a stack of my books, which I wanted to share with my brother, Jesse. Inside the front covers were the letters "t i o;" apparently this was my attempt at Katie.