As the girls in my daughter’s Y class jogged ’round the upstairs track, I craned to see my daughter in the pack. That is until the pack went by and my daughter wasn’t among them.
I waited. Then looked down the track to the corner from where the others had come and there… with her brown, hearted jacket tied around her waist in a single knot and gliding like a butterfly was my daughter.
In absolutely no hurry.
“Go, honey!” I yelled.
And she waved.
“Run!” I shouted. And she slowed to a putter, as if something might be wrong with me.
There clearly was.
Last night, the phone call from our daughter emanated excitement. “We went roller skating,” she breathed. “And guess what?”
I had no idea.
“I joined the race!”
“You did?” I exclaimed. “How’d you do?”
And my daughter, the one who glides, the one who inhales flowers when there’s flowers to be smelled, beamed, “I finished LAST, mom…but I had a blast!”
And I couldn’t have been more proud.