She takes advantage of my singing.
She's working on handwriting and I'm playing a Celtic rendition of a song I learned in my childhood.
"If you didn't grow up in a Christian home, how did you learn that song when you were a kid?" she asks.
"I had an organ and this was a song in my music book," I smile. The music ends and she requests another song. I pick this one.
"It sounds like a song from big church," she comments.
"Yes, it does. We sang this recently," I tell her.
And I'm singing along to that one too, perusing posts from 2010, thoughts piqued from a recent literature discussion about good fences and good neighbors and how literature that is obscure to a younger generation burns with clarity in an older one. (I tell the students to hold onto Confessions and read it when they're forty. I hope they fall in love with Augustine as much as I did.)
I hear the door open and look up. Erin is missing from the table. I see her run past the French doors. A trail of bubbles follows her. I get up and look out the window at her and laugh. She's outside on the patio, blowing bubbles. Seven can hardly be sweeter.
"Come back in!" I call to her. "We still have geography."
She laughs and runs to the door. We color in countries from the Middle East.