She pops pink bubblegum bubbles, sitting Indian style, on the living room floor, in the middle of a picnic. It had poured that day, so instead of disappointing them, she had dutifully packed a knapsack, and strapping it to the boy's eight year old back, took his three year old sister by the hand, and announced, "We are going on an adventure! You have your walking feet on?" Around the house they had hiked, up the stairs and down again. In and out of familiar rooms, where she pointed out things in a different way. She stopped in front of the fish tank, "Oh! What a beautiful lake! Shall we have lunch here?" The children nodded. So the blanket was spread, and they ate peanut butter, and ginger bread. She told old campfire stories, by the glow of candles, bunched together instead of in a row. And they sang songs, off key but merrily. The boy leans heavily against her arm, while his sister nestles in her lap dozing. Watching her blow pink bubblegum bubbles. "Mommy?" "Yes?" "This is a good pretend. Does it have to end?" "Nope," she says . "There's always an adventure."
