We’re cuddled under a make-shift tent on the couch, while her brother naps. I’ve draped a knit blanket overhead, and it filters the sunlight into tiny granules that dance whenever we move the blanket. We are listening to the original cast recording Sondheim’s Into the Woods, a masterful retelling of fairy tales, a story about innocence lost and the fallacy of “happy ever after.” And at the same time, I think, about hope’s inextinguishable return. In spite of it all.
I watch her as she listens and consider myself more fortunate now than I have ever been in my life. To have moments such as these in the first place, and to know that their preciousness is rarely lost on me, in the second.