A Storyteller's Journey

I finish brushing her hair on the front porch,
Her brother already pacing the end of the driveway,
Always afraid to miss out.
One last tug through her long gold hair,
Gold in the way that only a child's can be,
And I zip up her backpack,
Gaping like a yawn,
Okay, I say,
And it might as well have been the starting pistol.
She is running through the gold morning light, 

Hair glittering in a trail behind her.
Have a good day! I call.
Her answer comes back.
Either, I will! or Hi, Will!
Is she still with me or
Is she already  greeting the neighbor boy?
She is running as fast as she can in her pink cowboy boots,
Her lunch bag swinging wildly from one hand.
I am called inside by the littlest one and by the smell of coffee,
But, from the kitchen window, I watch her and her brother
At the end of the drive, waiting for the bus to take them away.