Miss Nora

It's 5 p.m. and there's not a clean spot on her two and a half foot body -- the pigtails are speckled with sand and the tiny hands are painted black with dried mud. Nora offers a "hello" to passers-by, gripping my hand on the way to the car. Soon, the two-year-old's tiny voice will pierce the silence with questions: "Where's my sweater, can I watch a show?" But for now, I enjoy the moment as we walk hand in hand to the car.