It’ll be 12 years in May that we’ve walked this rustic pigtrail we call a driveway. Yesterday, she obliged and walked with me to check the daffodils. She didn’t have a golden auburn ‘turkeybob’ bouncing on top of her head and she wasn’t wearing a tu-tu, or pilgrim apron, or cowboy boots with shorts. She wasn’t singing at the top of her lungs or dancing with arms flailing in sweet abandon. But, she was barefoot. And the muddy puddles beckoned.
She obliged them, too.