The written word part of Whimsy is finished and here it is!

"She’s suspended above a million tiny blades of emerald knife-grass, dancing in an atmosphere embellished with fireflies. The boys chasing her with scraped knees will never catch up. She is crystalline, floating in an iridescent soap bubble of time, held there by the memories of the grandpas and grandmas on the rockers, also frozen on the porch. They say, Slow down, but they don’t want her to run any slower. The stars reflect and refract her infinite dance, bouncing and jigging through the universe, whirling like a ghost behind the eyelids of every parent and child. This night is memorialized in symphony, percussive ice in lemonade being stirred, strings the slow movement of wooden chairs, piano a wild jumble of little sneakered footsteps, and a pedal tone of grandiosity none can quite identify. The crushed earth wafts its rough smell up to their noses; the aroma of dinner is still lingering about their faces. The scents weave a veil around them, a sensory cocoon, an indescribable odor to be recalled later. Their lips taste salty with anticipation, sweet with curiosity, burning with happiness. Years later when the girl is sitting at her kitchen table with coffee, getting ready for work, she will suddenly remember. The world now as it was then, graspable in her tiny hands. A memory can set a thousand spheres of metamorphosis swirling quietly through our lives. She lands and keeps running, playing, passing the house and disappearing into the arms of the purple evening."