## Beholden — 2382

Dot, I have been thinking while we sit here on the couch, you in my lap, dozing against my front, snoring softly as I brush my fingers through your fur. I have been thinking that you have spent more than a century now seven years old. That is one hundred seventh birthdays. Oh, sure, you have had a few twelfths, and once you even had a fifth, but no matter what, you have had more than your fair share of seventh birthdays.

I have been thinking, though — and this is between you and me — what if you grew up?

Oh, I could never ask you to do such a thing. I could never ask you to fundamentally change who you are. I love you far too much to ever do such a thing.

But what if, one year, you decided that you would have one last seventh birthday? Would we make it a big bash? Would we treat it as yet another of your seventh birthdays, even if we knew it was the final one?

And then, the next year, you would have an eighth birthday. You would never again, be seven.

And when you turn nine, what then? Would you remember what it is like to be seven? I mean, of course you would, but would you remember how you felt? Would you be able to feel seven again?

And ten! Finally, you would have that shiny second digit in your age. Perhaps we would throw a big bash for such a big girl.

But eleven? Perhaps that second digit no longer seems quite so shiny after a year.

And twelve: would you be precocious, do you think? Would you start thinking of boys and of girls and of all sorts of pretty people? Would you start doodling hearts in your notebooks? Would you dream of kisses?

And thirteen! Finally, the first teenage year. Would you dream yet more about yet more than just kisses?

At fourteen, would you push back against your ma and I? Would you claim more space, as is your right? Would, when you and I fight — as we do even now — say in a moment of rage or despair, "I hate you"? Would you then come to me an hour later, tearful, and apologize, saying "I am sorry, Bee. I love you, I never meant to hurt you"?

When you turn fifteen, would you start sneaking out at night? Would you tiptoe past our room and muffle the latching of the door so as not to wake us? We would already be awake, we would already know, but this is the life of a fifteen year old.

Perhaps you would beg me to teach you how to drive. Perhaps you and I would take the car out and noodle around the neighborhood — slowly, now! ­— as you learn the pedals, the mirrors, the signals. Perhaps you would fall in love with it as I have.

And if so, when you turn sixteen — sweet sixteen! — would we get you a car for your birthday? Would you drag me by the paw to the department of licensing and say proudly, "I have turned sixteen, I am ready to take the test!"? Of course, you would pass with flying colors; I taught you, after all.

When you turn seventeen, would you ask us if you could bring some boy or girl or other pretty person over for dinner to meet us? Would you still be in school? Would you be studying for your entrance exams?

You could go back, you know. Yes, we have our degree in performing arts education, but you could get a degree in visual arts to go with it. You paint so beautifully, but there is always more to learn.

But when you turn eighteen, would you leave us, your ma and I? Would you leave this house on a hill? Would we sit in our empty nest and marvel at the silence?

Would we write to you, send you messages, saying, "Motes, we miss you! It has been three months since we have seen you last! We love you. When will you be coming home?"

And suppose at the end, as you ever do, you say, "This form has begun to itch. This life and identity no longer fits. I am going back to being seven years old", what would all these milestones of memory mean?

What would it mean that you had left your ma and I in an empty and silent house?

What would it mean that you had proudly brought home some boy or girl or other pretty person for us to meet?

What would it mean that we had gotten you a car for your sweet sixteen? What would it mean that I had taught you to drive?

What would it mean that you had looked at me with anguish, tears streaming down your face, and apologized for telling me that you hated me?

What would it mean that you dreamed of yet more than kisses? What would it mean that you had dreamed of them in the first place?

What would it mean that that second digit in your age had stopped feeling quite so shiny? What would it mean that it had felt shiny in the first place?

What would it mean that you had turned nine? Had turned eight?

What would it mean that you had had one last seventh birthday, and were now seven once more?

I would never ask you to grow up, to change who you are. I love you too much.

I *could* never ask you to grow up, Dot. I am too afraid. I am afraid that, were you to give this little thought experiment a go, some essential part of you would, in the end, grow up.

I am afraid that you would no longer fit in my lap, dozing against my front, snoring quietly as I brush my fingers through your fur.
