She careened down the hill, feet over head, feet over head, pulled into a tight ball of grass stains and denim and purple poodle barrettes.
She giggled as she came to a gentle stop on the fluffy grass below. She cartwheeled across the meadow and finally tumbled to the ground under a maple tree.
I know all this, because I was watching her. I was sitting on my porch, watching her, and trying to remember.
It had been a good thirty years since I’d done any somersaulting. Or any skipping or hairbraiding or make-believe, for that matter. “Unless you count making believe that my life is actually worth living,” I said softly to myself with an ironic laugh.