I follow Marcia Brady on Twitter: Mo McCormick, Actor/Author. She posts a video with her older brother and they dance, a fast waltz, under an oak tree with dozens of hanging pastel paper parasols. She holds his hands, looks up into his face: he watches her feet. I wish we were friends. I’d call her, Mo, too, one syllable, low: prayerful, bovine. Mo asks her brother, do you have a girlfriend yet? She leads, spins him around: I love her in a way I couldn’t back then. As a child, I loved the middle girl, Jan, the jealous one, Eve Plumb, Bible spondee fruit, with a TV J-name, and that blue crochet vest. When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child. When I was a child, I’d see Mo’s face on my tin lunchbox, but now I see her freckles mirrored a small star cluster visible on clear nights— Constellation of Bejewelled Silver Studs on Soft Velvet Bell Bottoms. Constellation of Kindness. Constellation of Purple Devotion. | 
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