My daughter's boots left imprints of snowflakes in the snow at the bus stop this morning. My boots left right angles and other straight lines. And we were the only two out there today. Evidence of us adorned the corner until more snow fell.

(Her little brother brought me her blankey, just now, after I decided to write about her. But readers don't want to read about miracles.)

When the little child gets off the bus at 3:45, with her coat open and her hat and gloves in her bookbag, I'm not going to speak harshly to her like I did on Wednesday. Instead I'll return a smile, admire the day's earned stickers she has the lunch ladies dot her forehead with, and wait with her if she stops to zip up. I'll even move her hair away and get her hat and gloves out for her if she wants them. Then I'll trample her footprints racing home.