Red ponytail swings behind the fresh-faced girl jog-bouncing down the hill, she’s just a kid, I think, and wave in recognition of the woman there.
Hours later spent in quiet work I take a break, I think, and end up halfway out the kitchen window deadheading the petunias, pouring sugar water for the hummer, my knees hurting from the hardness of the kitchen sink and then I hear an engine purring down.
Red ponytail swings behind the woman in the driveway, all grown up and yet, she’s just a kid, I think, and smile.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology
This is wonderful — and a phenomenon I’m beginning to experience, I think.