A crystal clear Friday afternoon in September finds me waiting by the roadside.
Finally I see what I'm waiting for.
Although not my own, precious cargo indeed.
She's the daughter of friends and she's spending the night with us. First, an after-school snack,
the slicing of which is quite necessary for an eight-year-old mouth.
A quick change of shoes
and we're off on country adventures: gathering eggs,
and loving on horses.
There are household chores too: getting the laundry off the line,
setting the table,
and helping make supper.
While she waits for Robin to come home, there is a little homework to do.
And after supper, there are eggs to clean
and more reading to do
and still more stories at bedtime.
Saturday morning brings her first attempt at frying an egg
and a walk with our Sheltie, Cheyenne.
When she asks, I'm glad I know how to French-braid hair.
I know because once upon a time many years ago my hair was long and thick like hers.
The morning flies by, the camera forgotten, while we putter at this and that. All too soon her mother arrives and our slumber party is over. What a sweet memory it is for me, and someday, perhaps, for her too.