The Coloring Book

We sat at the table together, both of us trying to color the same drawing at once. My arm awkwardly trying to maneuver around hers. She definitely  colored in the lines better than I.

She still had her ski boots on. We had come inside the lodge to take a break, to sneak in another hot chocolate, with whipped cream, while her mom and dad were on the slopes. She had a whipped cream mustache. She licked it off like an expert.

We were at the very table where I sat coloring with her mother 33 years ago, when she was the same age as the little girl who now snuck onto my lap.

My granddaughter whispered to me to keep this hot chocolate a secret, that her parents should not know. I promised I would not tell. I promised a second time for good measure.

I had earlier watched as she took a run down the bunny hill, flying into her mother's arms at warp speed. The pizza pie not yet a completely ingrained part of her repertoire. When she reached the bottom I told her that she was unbelievable. "It's not very hard, papa" she replied.

I remember her mom on this slope, when her love of skiing emerged. For her, much Iike the little girl who was my companion today, the time in the lodge, the french fries, the coloring books, toys and stuffed animals, the walking around in slippers, was just as important as what happened outside. The only difference was that now there were no slippers. Maybe, tomorrow.

When her parents arrived, my granddaughter's secret was somehow extracted from her in but a few seconds.

Today was a good day. A really good day.