(ALICE)
I pack the sandwich in a plastic container before pasting a sticky note on it and writing a sweet message. After smiling at the note that I know is going to have the recipient laughing like a loon, I look over my shoulder and call out, "Mira, it's getting late. Move your little butt."
I hear the pitter patter of little feet on the wooden floor of the hallway, and a little girl not even half my size skids into the kitchen. "Here!"
I give her a sharp look. "What have I said about skidding in the house? You're going to fall and hurt yourself."
"No, I won't!" my six-year-old daughter protests before grabbing her lunch box and shoving it recklessly into her backpack. "Let's go."
I looked down at her bare feet. "You want to get your shoes first, ma'am?"
She wiggles her toes at me, giving me that carelessly charming smile that never fails to pang my heart with the ghost of a memory. "I don't like shoes."
