The Days of Day

Somewhere along the way I grew up.  I didn't see her leaving, that little girl with the uncontrollable, tangly, light-filled curls... the one with the dancing-in-public, hiding-in-the-clothes-racks glint in her eyes.  I didn't watch closely enough, or maybe I watched too closely, and she somehow packed her red cowboy hat and orange overalls and stored them away with the blue eye-shadow and Dippety-Do hair gel. I regret to inform me that she herself climbed into that box, too, and sent out of that closet, instead, a poised, competent woman with really erect posture and a good reputation. Some trade that was. The wild-child could fight, damn-it.  She could shout and tangle with monsters of disproportionate size.  She could point her finger and raise the roof, all at the same time.  She could scatter scraps of paper without one time imagining how long it would take to clean it up.  Man, she could just FLY. The model of appropriateness, though, just s...