Anna, you big darling. You came to the mountain with your hair in braids, feeling like Laura Ingalls Wilder. Your face is sweet and plain, but it glows with something, right when your eyebrows start to furrow and your brain starts to turn its cranks and cogs and somersault with thought and cunning. You are brave, even if you feel like you’re running away like a coward. Sometimes running away is the bravest thing a person can do.
Your mother smelled of baby powder and gristle. You wished she was like the celebrity mothers you saw in Photoplay, like Fay Wray and Sally Blane, whose aprons were lace and didn’t have gravy all over them. Of course Anna you didn’t know that celebrity mothers even then had nannies, and back then (when you were reading Photoplay), those nannies were more like indentured servants; usually black, usually overworked and underpaid. There was glamour but for that glamor to manifest there had to be an undercurrent of pain, but of course your family had a lot of pain and so little glamour, so why not have a little sparkle in life if there must be pain too?