Dana

Diminutive, the tot, as useful a one-word
description as any for this knee-high
to-a-grasshopper child with the neutral
but charming name she is swift to proffer.
Delicate facial features under her hood
only discerned as a little girl when she
casually slides it away, fine golden curls
framing her face, inquisitive eyes turned
directly toward my own, frank curiosity
brimming with questions starting with my
own name. A child of obviously precocious
language skills and a cognitive capacity
to match, engaging and direct. From the
start of life's trajectory to the end, she is
two and I am 82. And nor may I insult this
child's intelligence by directing conversation
to her parents, they indulging the drive of 
her questioning spirit, addressing me as 
one adult to another, displaying in her 
command of language and firm demeanor
how her future will unfold and the manner
in which she will be prepared to forge
her destiny in this most cranky of worlds.