It may be temporary, but…
My seven year old still wants to hold my hand. To reach up with her right and secure it in my left, as the two of us leave the YMCA.
She wants to know what I was doing while she swam. “Reading a book,” I tell her. “Which one?” she asks. And I mumble the title. “Is it good? What’s it about? What’s the name of the character?” I look at her in the rear view mirror and shrug as I answer her questions. Every one.
She is me. Just smaller.
At home, she spins ’round on an office chair eating peanut butter with a spoon because she’s hungry and “can’t find anything else.”
She wears shorts and my winter hat, the one with the puff ball on top and the long side strings hanging down her cheecks because it’s forty-nine degrees and she can’t find hers.
She sets her own timer for twenty minutes and walks away from the computer when it dings. At which time I ask,”could you put music on for us?” And she does, skipping back to the kitchen to Handel’s Messiah.
She reads with gusto, laughs with abandon, and twirls to a drummer none of us have heard.
Thank you, God, for little girls!