I've been taking Eva for long walks. We wander around to the flower shop where the Italian men marvel at how small she is and slip me pink boxes filled with silver saints to protect her, then we go past the diner, and the old ladies warn me about how time will fly, how before we know it Eva will have abandoned me, and I'll be sitting with them sucking back stale coffee and supping on soft toast.
Yesterday, huge flakes of snow fell, and we strolled past the Brooklyn Casket Company and along the Gowanus Canal then through Park Slope, passing shops that sell only cupcakes and shops that sell only cards. Eva was wide-eyed, and I told her stories about snow, how her daddy loves it, how he makes pancakes the first snow every year, how some people go their whole lives without seeing it and some have a hundred words just to describe it.
Once the wind picked up, we ducked into the tea shop to meet Zoe and Anna, and it felt good: Anna, just nine days older than Eva; Zoe, just as tired as I am. On the way home, Eva slept, and my fingers got cold, and I sang This Little Bird of Mine. The silver saint, tucked in my pocket, knocked against the walls of the cardboard box, and I wondered what it would protect us from, hoped it would protect us from griefs we would never have to know.