Christine Lavin Follow

Katy says, "Today is the best day of my whole entire life." Katy is three years old. We've been dancing in the living room to her new Tom Paxton record. Katy's got a lot of rhythm when she wiggles. For a little kid, she's got soul.

That night when her mom and dad come home, I tell them what she said to me. I figure they'll think I'm some kind of babysitting genius to make this little girl so darn happy. But they smile and they say "Don't take this the wrong way, but Katy said the same thing yesterday. Lately she's been saying that everyday."

I think back to what I know was the best day of my life. It was wintertime ten years ago. We were staying in a farmhouse un the middle of Vermont. The hills were covered with Christmas trees and freshly fallen snow.

Instantly I picture the vivid details of that day. When you told me that you loved me more than you could ever say, the air was a bracing cold, the sky a startled blue. Never before, or since, have I felt that close to you.

What does that say about you and me and the last ten years? I've learned to live with your silence. You've learned to overlook my tears. Now this dancing three year old in her simple perfect way, has me questioning the basis for the life we live today.

Katy's probably sleeping now. I wonder if she dreams about flying with the angels, dancing with moonbeams. You are here beside me. You are snoring right out loud. I long to kiss you on the forehead and smooth your worried brow.

Though we have not given up, it's been ages since we've tried to reveal the aching passion that for years we've pushed aside. I whisper that I love you because I know you cannot hear. I turn off the light and in the dark, you gently pull me near.

Katy says, "Today is the best day of my whole entire life."