Every morning this week ElizaJane has come down from her room wearing slippers.
I suppose that is not so remarkable, except that they are Crockett's slippers.
I purchased them last Christmas thinking they would help protect Crockett's feet when he kicked his wheelchair.
That was one of his favorite past times, and one of the few ways that we knew if he was happy.
Kicking was good,
kicking meant he was doing well,
but the kicking was so hard that I couldn't help but wonder if it hurt.
I thought maybe these crazy slippers would help.
Liza was sick this week, and the slippers were soiled.
I told her that I had to wash the slippers.
She cried tears," no", she sobbed "that will ruin Crockett's slippers, I don't want them to be washed, I like them this way, they are good."she cried
"No" I insisted "I will make sure they are OK" I promised.
They were washed,
they were OK,
they went back on her feet.
This morning she went straight to the piano and began to make tinkling music.
I looked up from my desk to see this.
We miss our Crockett