Soft, yellow cotton. The blanket hung from the clothes line, swaying in the warm summer breeze. The tiny girl was at her feet, cushioned on soft blades of grass, arms outstretched, seeking to wrap berry stained hands around sun drenched cotton.
“No, baby girl,” she gently scolded, “not until Mama gives you a bath.” The tiny girl gave her a sleepy pout. She smiled. “Did your Daddy teach you that?” Mama placed the little one on her hip. She smelled like sunshine.
Baby girl gripped Mama’s smiling face with sticky fingers. Their laughter floated through the neighborhood; special, sacred, sweet.
Yolanda London Dwyer 