oh children. they are small and pink and curly-haired. to win my heart they must wobble past on unsteady short legs and grant be a brief sparkling smile. I find myself wanting to offer their mother some kind of explanation as I follow their child with an grin of undiluted joy overtaking my face. mostly I turn down the wattage of my smile and give a nod, acknowledging the delightul innocence of a wandering miracle and the great care of the woman with the treasure of watching over it.
I do miss the boys. I need more butterflies and eskimos in my day.
