Somewhat Irish Girl

She leads the zig-zagged way down the block. I’ll clean the kitchen later.

She finds a tree with berries to pick. I can skip a shower.

We see a squirrel rustling in a tree and stop to watch. I don’t need to eat before my workshop.

We backtrack a bit and she stops to kick the ball on the string. I snap a quick photo then bury my phone—my time keeper and distractor and killer of joy—deep into my pocket.

She wants gloves off. Gloves on. Gloves off. It’s 23 degrees.

Funny how to- do lists and temperatures never make it into your memories.

We stay out a bit longer.