"What do your parents do?" I ask. "As little as possible," she says.
I notice when the kids don't know how to pronounce a word they say the first sound or syllable, and then let the rest of the word die in their mouth. 'Significant' can turn into 'sigf.' Then they move on to the next word without looking back, as if they've committed a verbal hit-and-run.
Geese settle onto the baseball diamond, where they strut from one mud puddle to another with awkward majesty.
She shows how happy she is to see me by drawing a spontaneous stick figure portrait of me surrounded by hearts and balancing a blue dog on my head.
Rain plinking on my shoulders as I sit in the Sukkah.
During the Hallel prayer service, the lulavs rustle, and a wind seems to rise and fall in the room.
"What do you want to do on your birthday?" I ask. "Anything I can get away with," she says.