On her Wednesdays this past summer, she would cautiously creep into the library trailer. If he as much as looked at her, she'd burst into tears. Several times we had to leave the trailer, calm down her teary face and venture back. Songs were song, puppets were passed around, and books were read. Weeks later, we stayed longer, although she still staked her place on my lap. Finally the songs became hers, as she put her teeny fingers together chanting the tune of "where is thumbkin," there and even at home.
Today, in all her bravery, she trots into the stuffy trailer to see him. His face, cracking with age, smiles at her. I know she's one of his favorites. "I used to be shy, too," he smiles down her while strumming his guitar. Me, too, I think as I wrestle her into my lap. But I lose, which has become usual these days. She dances. She sings. She interrupts his songs to point out the balloons.
We've come far on our Wednesdays, little one. And, oh, how I'm blessed to be a part of your victories.