I saw her in her winter coat and her too-short snow pants (they're FINE, mama). The bare inch of her calf exposed to the air where boot and snow pants yawned apart and her thin red leggings had gotten bunched at the knee. It was 7 in the morning. (too early to go out, only a millimeter of snow, it's cold, you'll freeze). (I want to go, Mama -- and she went), I saw her in that pink Hello Kitty hat, in mittens thin and worn, ones I had bought for her oldest sister something like seven years ago. I'm not sure why I haven't gotten rid of them. I saw her standing there in the backyard with her chocolate milk mustache -- a double smile on her face. I saw her brushing off the swing, content in her own skin, fine with being on her own, tapped into the joy of the first few flurries sticking to the grass. I saw her standing there. I saw her shining there.
