The yellow crocuses 1 planted around the grave of the baby quail have bloomed in this warm spell. I'm sitting near them, in the back yard, reading in the sunshine. 2 plays her standard repertoire of 5-year-old games: restaurant, house, ballet, sporting event.
Then she slides half-way onto a chair beside me and grins.
2: I have a question for you. If you get it right, you'll get my very best trophy. Who made us: God... or Mother Nature?
Me: Is there really a right answer?
2: Yes! [expectant pause] If you think about what we are... you'll know ...
We speak at nearly the same moment.
Me: Mother Nature?
2: Mother Nature!
2: I thought about it and figured it out for myself. --I don't know if it's truth or not, but it's what I think.
I pretended I had to go blow my nose and ran into the house so I could scribble the conversation on a piece of scrap paper. For the record, I never speak about a "Mother Nature" figure; I'm not sure where she got it from, but she's been mulling over the different between the two characters for over a year now.
What was happening in her brain as she pondered this? What does she think God is that we are not?
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