And there was a little girl, with blonde curls, maybe three years old. She appeared in the doorway of the lab where my son was having blood drawn. She wore a pair of black tights and nothing else save the two cotton balls taped to the inside of each elbow. Alone, she quietly scootched her way past the door, her parents a few slow steps behind her.
I thought of them and felt guilty for my gratitude, hoping that perhaps her visit was not for something serious. A few minutes later, we moved on to another exam room, and down the hall, I saw her scootch by again, alone. And then later her parents. She seemed more at home in the clinic than I wanted her to be, this girl with a head full of blonde curls.