It is Wednesday, 5:09 p.m. We are nine minutes late.
It is the middle of May. Only 6 and a half days of school left– unless you are a fourth grader and going to Camp Don Lee on Monday and Staying For Two Nights.
She heaves her guitar from the back of the van and carries it away from me. It is not as big as she is, but it seems almost as heavy. It rubs against her leg with every step.
She is ten years old.
It is only 5 p.m. in the middle of May. The sun is still high, and its light streams through the leaves and branches of the tall trees in her guitar teacher’s yard. As Emma walks away, the sun catches at the many hairs that have escaped her braids and are drifting around her face. I can see them even though her back is turned.
Suddenly she stops. She turns. She stands, rigid, looking at me, left hand gripping the guitar case handle. She opens her eyes wide and sticks out her tongue three times in rapid succession like a lizard or a gekko or some strange amphibious creature, at home in worlds I’ve visited but don’t entirely understand.
And then she turns and walks, and then she’s at the door. I get the lizard/gekko look again… and then a smile. And then she goes inside.
I pull out of the driveway and make my errand to the grocery store, which is miles away from when I was ten and never had to think about what to make for dinner.
I’m so glad Emma will still be ten when I get back.
