I swallow and look down to where she’s still holding on to me. So tiny. How can her fingers be so tiny? I move my thumb and stroke her teeny fist. My daughter. Gingerly, I turn my hand to capture one of hers in mine, caressing the now sticky little fingers. “Wanna play hairdresser?” Not moving my eyes off the precious treasure in my palm, I lean over and kiss the ketchup-covered tips. And nod.
