“I need water, Mommy.” Sarah, my precocious five-year old tugs at my black dress. I’m running late. To a funeral.
“Here.” I put the green cup in front of her on the kitchen table as I debate with the mirror. Eye make-up or not. Chances are I’ll cry. I’m a crier. And the make-up will just end up making me look like I have two black eyes. Skip the eye-liner.
“Mommy, here.” Sarah pushes a stapled paper book she made in school into my lap as I pull on my boots. “You forgot to read this to me.”
Now? I’m thinking? You need me to read this to you, right-now? Zip up my second shoe and prop my princess in my lap. Ten pages. I can do this. Continue reading