Taking a walk with granddad in the bright sunshine of 65 degree mornings hands and shadows connected in adventure and exploring, wondering at butterflies, picking flowers, trying to open gates, tasting herbs, stooping over to examine every rock and thing, running, squealing for the fun of it, opening doors, pushing the limits of discovery.
Inside to the soft rattle of the ceiling fan you watch muppets on TV, and hear songs about "toileteers," laugh at cartoons about the bear and the blue house, say woof and meow and car, color in books, sit on the potty, try to climb out of highchairs, sing the ABC's and twinkle, twinkle, and play with granddad's hat.
Outside are soft breezes and the drone of lawnmowers, daddy planting flowers and mommy preparing fresh farmer's market vegetables for the evening meal, listening to NPR. Breakfast included eggs with fresh onions, blueberries, basil and coffee.
Curly blond hair, tanned skin, eating a juicy pear for a snack with juice and mess everywhere. Then you crawl up on the couch to be read to, curled up in a blanket. Riding in the car seat late that day, listening to granddad sing simple lullabies.
Liberty Faye Clark. Earlier today your daddy called you "Miss Faye." I hadn't heard that in decades, something my mother's sister used to call her.
Granddaughter days.
