A is for Anchor, the very thing I need after a growth spurt.
At 192.5 ft. in height, my mirrors are glass-covered buildings, and the streets that divide them the narrow paths I tread carefully, gentle giantess that I am.
To feel so tall, to see it all from up here makes me giggle with delight, and I always forget what happens when I giggle: I grow!
By the time I’ve regained composure, I’ve grown a few dozen feet, and my slightly shredded blouse has lost its buttons, tabletop-sized projectiles that have pierced walls here, landed on a pizza delivery boy there. Oops.
I move quickly as I hold those tattered remnants together and make my way to the pier, where I spot my Little One’s boat bobbing gently in the water as he gets ready to drop what I need.
I smile at him as I pinch the boat’s tiny anchor by the shank, and I lift it to mend my blouse, hooking two loose ends with its curved arms. It works perfectly!
But what dangles from my chest now?