‘Ma’am;’ my tiny student gleams; ‘one day;’ ah, I think, here goes a story; ‘one day, when you’re a little girl, I’m going to marry you.’ He skips off, unburdened.
A kindly hilarity hits me repeatedly. I smile at the clear pendant of moon that dangles low over the curvy home road. At the turn to Lawhitton, cloud curls up over the moon’s edges. I regard this magnificent mottled sky and, maybe thinking of adornments and romantic heroes, the phrase ‘chest wig’ arises in the busy part of my brain that likes to find new ways of seeing things.
|Not a single chest wig photo? |
Here is a picture of Baby being surprised instead.