She Was Waiting for Adventure to Arrive

I came home from the farmers’ market on Sunday to find my daughter on our front lawn. Her face fell as I pulled into the driveway.

I wasn’t hurt.

It was only me, not the grandparents driving north from Georgia, the grandparents who’d texted at 9:15 that they’d be here in five hours.

She’s old enough now to read a clock, old enough to add five hours to 9:15, but what’s a little math up against the sheer excitement of impending visitors?

When you’re 8, nothing.

I sat, for a few moments, inside my car and watched her dancing around the front lawn. It all came flooding back.

Too many years ago, that was me. Only instead of a yard in Callicoon Center it was a front porch in Callicoon, a cement slab with the cement steps I once fell from (footie pajamas, they’ll get you every time).
Those steps and the metal rail around it are both long gone, but on Sunday I could feel them both against my skin.
For hours I’d sit and wait for my “aunt” to come up from New Jersey. I knew she’d come bearing books and bagels and attention for me, the kid.
I couldn’t wait.
Sitting out there made the waiting seem interminable, and yet, there was the promise of an end, the promise that I’d spot the car first, that the adventure would begin that much sooner.
On Sunday I wasted just a few moments wandering down memory lane. I had fresh cherries and fresh baked bread to unload from the car, a fresh pie from the bakery in Jeffersonville, plucked from the table at the Callicoon market precisely because the grandparents were on their way. I had to get these things inside, get back to checking items off the endless list of preparations for the house when guests are headed into town.
But as I wandered past her with my canvas bags of goodies, I stopped for just a moment and looked out at the yard, at the driveway, at the open road, and smiled.

Adventure awaited out there.

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