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It is a book, life is. You can't look ahead, but you can leaf through what you've already written. Some days I have the sense to read slowly, to savor the pages and relish each moment. Other days the pages flip so quickly I barely have time to see what's happening. (In 2020, I swear sometimes the pages stuck together.) ********************* Her tiny face was perfect, rosy cheeks and a mouth shaped like a heart. In the hospital the nurse held her and said, "I want my baby to look like this." When I first saw her, she had a stubborn little point of hair that stuck up on the crown of her head. It didn't matter what I did for the next year--that spike would not lie down. I finally gave up and taped a little bow to match her outfits on it. As she grew, that spike of hair turned into a huge mop of curls that threatened to overwhelm her slim self. Sometimes I sat on the porch in my wicker rocker waiting for her to come home from school and when I spotted her running down the block, it almost seemed that her hair had more control of her than she of it, as if it propelled her along with some strange energy of its own. She was busy like that, hurrying everywhere, gently curious about her friends, always wondering if I was okay. One afternoon when she was to have stayed with the Brownies after school, she appeared at the door. Her face was sweaty and the curls around her forehead were damp. Why are you here early, I asked, surprised and concerned. At first she looked guilty and would not meet my eyes, but then she stuck her chin out and said, "I didn't want to be there. I wanted to be with you." Later the Brownie leader scolded because "why did she sign up if she didn't plan on coming to all the meetings," but I just smiled because I knew why. She and I were friends, buddies. We went everywhere together. She especially liked to grocery shop, hanging on the front of the cart like a circus ride, her mouth closed and tilted as she carefully studied the shelves we rolled past. Her favorite meal was Mac & Cheese. Great excitement built as we entered that aisle-she grasped the boxes of Mac & Cheese, fending off her sister from gumming the box to death before it ever had a chance to be served as our lunch. Children are funny like that. They have favorite things of which they never tire-an old green swimsuit that mysteriously appears as underwear beneath a new Sunday dress-a stuffed animal that likes to ride along in the car or swing at the park-a meal of pb&j or cold cereal eaten day after day after weary day. Satisfied with very little, such a life has a certain simplicity. The cycle repeats with age; it is the tween and middle years that so much is required...aisle after aisle of "choice" so bewildering and mountainous that a mere trip to a store makes one weep with indecision. Mac & Cheese. We ate it and ate it and ate it. This, however, was okay. I fixed it because she wanted it and because it meant home and me to her. She was nine the summer I decided to paint the house. Grueling and messy, the preliminary work required scraping and caulking and nailing. I started early, humming with the radio, sweating as the sun rose to noon. Soon a fuzzy head appeared at the window: the topic was delicately broached. Was I aware it was lunchtime? But her question was different this time. She wanted to make lunch herself--to help. She wanted to make Mac & Cheese. I stopped, hammer in hand, surprised by this event and not at all displeased, although now I know it was a moment in time not to be forgotten. Well, ok, I agreed slowly. You know where everything is, right? Make sure you don't burn anything or boil anything down, I warned, picturing the kitchen in flames while I fiddled outside. There ensued a great clattering and banging from the kitchen. Every few minutes, a worried little face appeared, asking some direction about exactly how much this or that or where that was. Finally it became quiet and I knew lunch was imminent. Only later did I discover the powdered cheese scattered across the countertop, the spilled milk and the dirty pans. With great dignity she brought our lunch out onto the flat roof where I labored. First mine, then hers. We sat side by side on the roof, listening to the chatter of the birds and the oldies on the radio, munching on partially cooked Mac & Cheese. We said nothing for a while, enjoying the day and the company. But then at last she put down her bowl, and watched my face as she said, "It isn't very good, is it?" She would know if I lied. "Kinda watery," I answered, "but it's your first time making Mac & Cheese. You'll get better at it." And I ate and enjoyed every last bite of the worst Macaroni & Cheese I have ever tasted in my life. ********************* Sometimes in the grocery store, I hear a little voice say, ”Look, Mama," and I turn, only to remember that, though she still has the mop of curls, she no longer follows me like a tail in the store, she no longer needs me to make her Mac & Cheese, nor does she run home early just to be with me. She makes her own Mac & Cheese now. And—sometimes—she even cleans up the mess. ***********************           Ballet Shoes    watercolor on paper/Corel Painter