Lighter than air
She spends a lot of time in her room these days.
It's not a punishment. Quite the opposite: It's her sanctuary.
Her room, a bismuth pink explosion with a smattering of hard-won dots, is the one place her brother isn't allowed without her permission.
There she can play with her dollhouse and her collection of tiny toys, which bobble their heads in mute understanding as she babels to them their roles in her intriciate tales of adventure.
A few days ago my father visited and he went upstairs to quietly intrude on her "alone time." It had been a while since he'd seen her and grand parent time, as most of us know, is precious.
He could hear her voice chattering happily as he climbed the stairs, though he couldn't make out all the words. Something about jumping tall cliffs and wearing long skirts ... perhaps ... He couldn't quite make it out.
He knocked on her door, announced himself and walked in ...
Her room seemed empty.
"Where are you?" he asked an instant before he realized she must be playing behind the three-story doll house in the corner of her room.
"I'm up in the air, papa. I'm up in the air."