as the rain did its clamory thing out in the dense, powdery darkness of the street, a little girl in a yellow mac lustily sang her dad a song. some childhood ditty about a little girl in a red pair of shoes out on an errand. the father and child and i, we were waiting for our orders to be filled in our neighborhood diner that strangely was inundated with a late afternoon crowd.
the little girl's singing was urgent. nothing else mattered to her - not the rains, nor her order of belgian waffle - but her father's approbation. done, she let out this piercing, almost whistling shriek. the slightly discomfited father gave her a wet buss in her forehead. when her father wasn't looking, the singing girl wiped the spot where he kissed her. and like a devout worshipper, she cupped her hands to her face and inhaled them. a smile moiled her immaculate face.
childhood is such a strange office. strange and simple. bliss, its acquisition, is but a simple matter of amassing, of hoarding up of all new feelings, all new tones. just the full chested inhaling of all these woozy, wet new things.
