Which sounds pretty old, I guess. Not a baby. Not a toddler. A seven-year-old!
But it really isn't. I don't know why. But she's not old at all really.
She can do the things seven-year-olds do. And think the things seven-year-olds think. And say the things seven-year-olds say. But somehow, she's still just ... the smallest slip of a girl. And there's something about the way she flits through life--all full of innocence and all full of her strange and strong little preferences--that doesn't feel like it quite belongs to this mortal sphere at all. There's simply nothing old about it.
You sometimes hear of "old souls". Well, perhaps, she's a fresh and young little soul.
In any case, it is a delight to have her existing in this sphere with us! How happy that we have this little soul.
Also ... is it possible for a soul to be primarily composed of pink and kittens? I've never heard of such a thing. But I think hers might be.
A little something she told me the other night after some garage exploration. (And yes, this does mean I have still not cleared out the garage.)
"I saw some wonderful things in the garage. I saw a cheetah picture. It kind of creeped me out when I was little. And I saw a red couch that had a little footrest that you could pop out. And the last thing I saw: it was some cupboards that used to be in Abe's room when we lived at the old house that me and Hans really liked. And that's all the wonderful things that I saw in the garage today."
And a little crumpled up list I found. She took naming our newest little goat very seriously. She decided on Christy and is quite devoted to her.
Lastly, isn't this the dearest? We woke up the Sunday before Easter to this taped to the door:
