Wednesday, October 10, 2012
The mailman pulls up to the mailbox and distributes the packaged paper as he rocks out to Slash. I feel the corners of my mouth raise to a smile because the guitar music reminds me of trips to Salt Lake City with my husband. I wave to the mailman as he pulls away and sing my daughter’s name. She comes running, declaring her intentions to help me carry the heavy advertisements. We lie in the cool grass and point out colors in the clippings. She loves the meat section and informs me in her tiny voice that she sees her favorite color pink. I kiss her drool-streaked cheek and run my fingers through the white wisps atop her head. My face lifts to the sun, and I allow the warmth to sink into my skin. Its contrast to the brisk breeze comforts me somehow and reminds me that these fall days, like the childhood years of my daughter’s life, are precious.