Farmer’s Market

Abigail did a lot of running at the farmer’s market this week, weaving in and out of the legs in the crowd with more or less success, depending on where her focus was at the time. People loved her purple polka dot dress and the matching shoes she’d picked out herself, especially with the necklace of shiny green beads she wears habitually these days. She found the flowers exciting, the craft section tempting and the tomatoes within reach. It was fun to watch my daughter, who isn’t even two yet, chatting with people and walking around with a purpose, like this was where she was meant to be. When it was time to go, I pulled her up from the curb where she was sitting and wiped her hands of the dead leaves she’d been playing with.

“Those are yucky, honey.”

“Don’t touch those.”

“That’s right. Don’t touch those.”

“Yeah.”

“You’re the best girl in the world, honey.”

Abigail nodded sagely. “And beads, too.”

“And beads, too.”

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