The little girl’s tight, golden curls sprung from her head in all directions. They bounced when the 4 year old talked so they were in constant, springy motion.
“Let’s make a rule that Nat Nat can only fall out of the golf cart once…” springy curled Claire stated as Nat Nat, who is barely 3, wailed her discomfort.
“I don’t want to fall out of the cart again, ” she cried, holding tight to my shoulders and mumbling under her breath once more how much she wanted her mommy and daddy.
“Well,” began Claire, and she set off on an explanation about bumps in the road and without using the word of inevitability, described exactly that with regards to Nat Nat and small motorized vehicles on farm roads.
In the golf cart was a total of five littles; five young minds housed in the heads of four girls and one lone boy. All of them were some where under the age of seven, mostly related, sisters and first cousins and then two whose blood and genes didn’t come from the same pool. But you could not have told this by looking at them. The girls who were sisters didn’t look it and while the children knew they didn’t all live in under the same roof, they clearly didn’t see the confines of their homes as the same as the confines of their family ties.
They had played well together for several hours. They reminded me of a bunch of atoms, gently bouncing off of each other, trading energy, a little kid cloud of electrons moving all around the farm. They played well together, the only drama was me dumping Nat Nat out of the cart.
As we made our way around the lake about a mile from the farm