It doesn't take much arm twisting.
She snuggles into my arm and leans her head against my shoulder. Seemingly small signs, but for my little firecracker this shouts, "I love you, Mommy. And I'm perfectly content right now."
I'm not going to rush this. Not one bit.
We turn the pages. I read, she reads.
I kiss the top of her head, smell the smell that's her, and I'm grateful for the now we are sharing.
She says, "Pretend I'm sleeping," and I take the picture.
She rolls back onto her tummy, flips through the poetry book and asks me to read the one about the kittens.
We read some more. We read about Laura and Mary and how proud they are of their beautiful mother, all dressed up for the dance at Grandpa's. She giggles over the corset tightening and I put my hands around her waist and say that women's waists were supposed to be SO small back then!
We're relieved that we don't have to wear corsets.
School ends and in a flash she's changed into her swim suit. Big brother sets up the sprinkler. I lather on the sunblock and we smile over the smell. It's been a long time since we've smelled summer.
The ice cubes clink in the glass of sweetened sun tea.
She splashes and squeals, sips and sunbathes.
Because when it's sunny, sunny, sunny, we are happy, happy, happy.
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