I feel a chill of late fall.
Wrapping my sweater snug around my shoulders, I shuffle home kicking pebbles with the tip of my scuffed black and white saddle shoes.
I have left the town fire hall, where the local girl scout troop meets each Thursday at 4 o’clock.
Grownup women, other moms, are dedicated to we neighborhood girls.
Mrs. Carroll shows us how to build tiny houses with glue and popsicle sticks.
We create greeting cards out of construction paper and dime-store paint.
I love the feel of applying the brush onto paper, its tiny fibers drawing others in, so they may see how I see. Or maybe they will find a surprise in themselves or the world.
We sing. We read and talk about nature. We are kind toward each other.
As I meander home, the nearby creek trickles like wind chimes.
I wonder if these leaders are as nice to their families as to us.
The fire siren sounds for the day’s sorrow like a warning. Here comes the night. Your mother will worry, don’t be late, come into safeness. Hurry, gather round, love, or dinner will get cold.
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