It’s Sunday morning and I’m hurried, snapping at everyone, running around trying to get everything done in time for church. I run outside to rummage through the car in search of anyone’s shoes I can find while my baby tags along.
“Hurry! Hurry! Run, Poki, run! We are going to be late!” I tell my daughter as I try to shoo her back into the house, but her only response is a murmured word over and over I can’t really make out and don’t take the time to. Suddenly she stops, looks me in the eye with a hint of frustration and declares, “FLOWER!” as she drops the armful of things I had her bringing in for me.
She runs over to the corner of yard to pick it up and brings it back to show me. “Flower! Pretty? Smell? In hair?”
“Why, yes,” I respond as I forget about my silly worries and sit on the step to hear more about this flower.
Boy am I lucky to have her.