Do You Like Light Blue, Papa

 "Do you like light blue, Papa?"

"I do. We like so many of the same things. We are so much alike."

There is a joy that attaches to me when I am in her company. A smile my constant companion as she goes about doing and saying what one does and says at her age. It is not that I find something extraordinary about her. It is that I find everything extraordinary.

"Do you like ice cream, Papa?"

"I do."

She can burst into laughter as I pretend not to see her while she hides, a large unruly mass under a blanket in forever motion but a few inches from my feet. 

She can inform her grandma "you seem a little tired" as she watches her yawn.

She can offer to hold her uncle's hand so she can ascend the stairs with him.

She can be transfixed by Daniel Tiger, seeming instantly to absorb every lesson being taught in this Mr. Rogers like neighborhood.

She can "spy with her own little eyes" a yellow school bus or clouds in the sky.

She can study intently, taking in the information of any surroundings before deciding whether it is safe to put her toes in the water.

It matters not the where, the why or when. It matters only the who.

"Do you like flowers, Papa?"

The true answer is that all I ask is for this little girl to keep asking me that question.

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