Genevieve has a purse.   It’s red, and small, and fits nicely over her shoulder.   She keeps her keys, wallet, and cell phone in it, as anyone would.   When we went to a restaurant the other night, she wouldn’t go in without her purse.   As I watched her sling it over her shoulder and walk into the restaurant, I was struck with how old she looked.  

I can now almost see the person she will be; the little girl is emerging from the baby that we knew for so long.   It’s odd watching this process, sometimes so gradual you hardly notice the differences, then so fast you can’t believe how time flies.   Pretty soon the purse, keys and phone will be real, and the fear I feel now when we are crossing the parking lot and she has torn her hand out of mine so she can run to the door will just be the tip of the iceburg compared to the way I will feel when it’s midnight and she’s still not home.