She's 8 going on 12.

Emma is precocious. She’s 8. Maybe going on 12. She’s Sardinian. Speaks Italian. And she’s learning English. In the 4th grade. The other day, she asked me, ‘Jim, do you want a biscuit?’ In perfect English. Yes, I did. A biscuit is a cookie. Italians call it a biscoto. Or biscuit. Anyway, I’m impressed by Emma. She’s observant. And curious. Even noticed that the tip of my middle finger, on my right hand, is missing. She wondered what happened. I told her my sister, when she was angry, slammed the kitchen door on my finger. It hurt. And took out a chunk. I had to walk to the hospital. A few blocks away. And get it sewn up. They put me to sleep. With ether. I didn’t like that. Emma asked if my sister felt bad over what she did. Yes, even years later. When we were adults. But it never bothered me. I’m able to live without a finger tip. Anyway, Emma satisfied her curiosity. Through my true love, who served as interpreter. And Emma showed us her worksheets. From English class. She's learning English words. By leaps and bounds. With the help of pictures. The same way I’m trying to learn Italian. With software called Rosetta Stone. I’m shown pictures on the computer screen. With the Italian word being pronounced clearly. Distinctly. But getting back to Emma. She inspires me to learn. So that I can carry on more conversations with her. Directly. I think she’s a bright, smart little girl. Both her parents are teachers. In Italian public schools. They are kind of curious people, too. They are interested in buying a sailboat. Although they don’t yet know how to sail. But they’ll learn. I like her parents. Because they tend to pursue their dreams. And little wonder that they have a precocious child. –Jim Broede