I’m sitting at my desk doing some study, but my eyes keep straying to the window. It’s a gorgeous spring day, the kind that makes you want to be out in the sun making daisy chains, or sitting with your bare feet resting on the back of a chair and your eyes shut, or sitting on the edge of a dock with your toes almost, but not quite, touching the water.
My lucky daughter is outside. She’s with a friend and so far they’ve hung out up high in one of the trees in front of our house, eaten a bowl of raspberries, played hide and seek, whizzed up and down the street on their skateboards, and walked on stilts, and now they’re going off to play table tennis.
They’re eleven, a funny age, both of them caught between being kids and teenagers, intimations of the women they’ll eventually become mixed in with those childlike traits that I hope never completely disappear, because I’ll miss them when they do.
I’m comforted by the fact that upstairs is a bed full of stuffed animals and a desk almost completely covered in tiny little plasticky things that drive me crazy on a regular basis. My daughter, for now, at least, eschews any kind of makeup or nail polish, and is content to wear the same pair of shoes day in and day out because they’re comfortable and what could be more important than that?
Now that they’ve disappeared around the corner I can get back to some work. Or maybe I’ll go outside, too…