Meet Me at the Wall
It's a sign to see her coming out of school, pulling her L.L. Bean backpack on one hand, the other still busily digging into her lunch box for some left over snack. The tiny pony tail that I had painstakingly gathered on the back of her head this morning was gone, leaving a wavy puff of messy turf. She found the half eaten fruit leather, and while chewing on it pleasurably, chatted excitedly to me: "Mom, it's so cool. Amy's teacher let us feed her snake a mouse. You've got to see it to believe it."
As soon as she entered the house, she ran to the telephone and took the cordless receiver off its base: "Nat, I'm home. Meet me at the wall." She threw the receiver onto the bookshelf, and proceeded towards the refrigerator, shouting: "Mom, I'm going outside." I picked up the receiver while she pulled the jug of milk out of the fridge. "Mom, can you pour me a cup, no, make it half a cup, I'm in a hurry. Nat's waiting." I was still pouring the cold white milk into the porcelain cup, the pink flowery one that she preferred, when she returned changed into a tiny short, which was too short to wear for school, but was her favorite one. She threw open the pantry door, investigated the interior half a second, and decided on the Joe Joe's chocolate cream cookie. She took the cup of milk from my hand, and with one cookie in her mouth, another in her hand, she hurried towards the patio door to the backyard. She struggled there like Bob, the Bob in "Hi, my name is Bob and I work for the button factory..." when I stepped up to pull the door open for her. Out she flew, like a whirlwind, almost spilling the cup of milk.