Our mail comes late everyday. Hours ago, we had gotten a call from Freya’s best friend saying which teacher she got. Now Freya waited on the front stoop with baited breath, jumping at every vehicular sound that came down our street. When Mailman Jim finally turned the corner, Freya raced to the edge of the driveway and darted to the mailbox, the warmth of Jim’s hand, inevitably still heating the letter.
How do we maintain a sense of excited anticipation in our lives even when we are beyond second grade?