Pink cowboy boots

She took the butter knife and shoved it into the boxes with glee.  Her force had power in the world, power enough to seperate the glue that held the flaps of the boxes shut.  She smiled at the pile of boxes she’d opened and smiled to her mom taking the opened boxes and smiled at the butter knife she used to open the boxes.  She sat on the boxes and opened the boxes in her pink cowboy boots.

Her mom would take the boxes and dump their contents on the table, placing a label on the side of each of the small boxes before putting them all back into the big box and taping it shut.  And she smiled back to her daughter in her pink cowboy boots on top of the boxes opening the boxes.

She asked me where the boxes go.  So I showed her where the boxes go and she said that she wanted to put the box where it goes.  So I took her to the table and the box slid off the table into her little arms and her eyes opened wide as the weight of the box settled into her little arms and I held the edges of the box so it wouldn’t tip her over as she carried it where it goes.

And she asked me about paper and why trees have to die to make paper.  And I tried to explain and she asked more questions and I tried to explain some more.  I saw ahead of her an entire lifetime of asking questions of people who could never answer all of her questions.  I saw all of the questions waiting for her to ask them.

Her face was unwrinkled with burdens she’d yet to carry, hopes yet to be dashed somewhere between the shores of fate and the rocks of chance, rows yet to be hoed.  Her eyes were clear, her gaze was wide and open and knew not enough to attempt to judge another person.  Her forehead was like the sea laid calm with the sun breaking the horizon.  Her voice was like honey on fresh bread with butter.  But all I could think about was how cute she looked in her pink cowboy boots.