It is a transcendently splendid day outside. It is Friday, rich with Spring, warm and lovely, blue and fresh with a flowers’ breath breeze. I feel small again every time it touches my face—running whooping through the grass chopping at dandelions with an improvised sword, attempting awkward somersaults, swinging from whippy maple boughs, wounding the bees for our bee hospital. I return to the glee of captive skippers, enshrined in the paper pagodas left from Independence Day; the incomparable, uncomfortable joy of reading a good book up a good tree… fumbling a daisy chain for the fourteenth time. Am I such a grown-up? Never on such a day. On such a day I bubble under my skin, laughing at it all, and waiting to burst out running, screaming, crowing, flying. On such a day I am young, and wild again.