This is a story about neglect and reclamation, told through the diaries of a young girl as she grows up into something beautiful, perhaps in a pitiable way. Beyond the story itself, I can and will gush about just how heavily the art weighed on me. It's the thought put behind the handwriting. I saw this child grow up through the style of it, from the waxy, blocky crayon scrawl, to the clunky gradeschool cursive, to the tamer graphite script. I look at that and I can see my youngest niece and nephew in it all, growing up from preschool and fast approaching middle. I remember when they wrote letters backwards. I remember when the schools mandated cursive lessons for a year. I remember myself in middle school having so much to say with a bigger vocab to say it and never enough room on the page. This and other small gems like the exploration of media and the refinement of her art is so damn touching.
I see myself revisiting this one for the journey.