"Brush your teeth?"
"Yep."
"Brush your hair?"
"Yeah."
"Got sunscreen?"
"YES, can I go yet?"
"Just be careful on the hill, and be nice to Paul."
"Byeee...."
THUD. The broomstick's still in the door. CLANG. She tosses it on the floor, flips the lock, breathes the fresh air, and skips down the stairs. Where to first? Who should she be today? Head toward the swings, board the plane, and soar through the air as a pilot? Climb up the deck stairs, hop in the ship, and set sail on the seas? Plop down under the giant maple, close my eyes, feel the sun on my checks and pretend I'm floating on a cloud? Sneak around the side of the house, hide in the bushes and write secret messages on the ground? Would there be time for all of them? The doors to my imaginary journeys were open. Each one began with a run down the hill.
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