"I think, Great-grandad and Kevin," Janie says. She furrows her brow, "And, you and Daddy and Rosie."
I pull around onto Sunset Boulevard. "Really? That's who you'd like to meet out of everyone in the whole world alive or dead?"
She nods. "Yeah." Two in heaven, three on Earth.
"Ok. What if you could have any question answered and know for sure that the answer was TRUE."
She tilts her head, squints, "Hmm." We pull under an overpass. Afternoon sun swells at our back. "This is gonna sound sort of funny," she says, "but I really want to know when," she annunciates with her lips, "they make the donuts." She waves the air, "Do they just use the donuts from the day before? Or do they come in 'bout the middle of the night to make them?"
"Well, that's a good question." I sail us over Paradise Valley, little black pick-up our chariot. "Maybe someday we'll figure it out." We linger in black pick-up's warm belly, then walk in step to the gallery meeting. Full of heaven and donuts and words shared like communion, another moment spins, plunks into a reservoir between us.
677. Almost gone ice cream carton, six sticky fingers.
678. New soaker pants, bright polka-dot and chocolate brown.
679. Fat green grapes.
680. C.S. Lewis' assessment that pride is ruthless, sleepless, unsmiling concentration on the self.
681. Keller's counterpoint that humility isn't thinking less of yourself; it's thinking of yourself less.
682. Rosie asleep on my back in orange backpack.
683. Another gallop around the block and Jane's assessment, "I think you're gonna be forced to use that backpack a lot more."
684. Peanut-butter and jelly picnic at the park. Brisk wind, flushed cheeks.
685. Jane's small hand in mine when we caper up the gallery stairs to fetch a paper for the meeting.
686. Her insistance that she sit in the meeting, not leave to meet Sidney the soft black puppy.
687. A dozen ropes of red licorice we share.
688. House at Pooh Corner and how the children giggle over the heffalump and Pooh's songs.
689. How Lulie wads the bathroom rug, jams it in the washer to cure a smudge that musta been poo.
690. How she scrubs it with disinfectant wipes first and then thoughtfully stuffs them back in the package.
691. How Jack clips his own fingernails.
692. How he hands me snaps one at a time as I plier them on to the new soakers.
693. Cousin birthday party and how Jane moves a mountain of school work to come.
694. The gathering of family, BIG family, and the devotion we feel to each person.
695. Tall girl cousin who whisks the children away for an hour of bliss and pretend.
696. Another breakfast with Grandad and how Jane has me re-tie her shoes to make sure they are extra tight.
697. Charles Dicken's A Christmas Carol, from thrift store shelf, and Janie's plea, "I just can't wait for you to read more of that."
698. Husband who wipes the table and counters smooth and fresh for morning, shines them up like love.
699. His unflappable, deliberate moves to serve me and bless me and give and give and how my pride bows checkmate to his ways.