What happens between eight and the rest of our lives?
Yesterday my youngest granddaughter–you know the age, eight going on twenty-five–brought me a gift. Her light brown hair was tangled on one side and her lips were purple from the grape juice she’d been drinking. She was wearing gray knit shorts over black leggings and a short-sleeved black t-shirt that had Believe written across it in rhinestones. Her fingernails were Wocka Wocka red and her toes were Divine Swine purple. She did not drop her eyes or shrug her shoulders. He