"Thank you, heart lady."
I was about five years old—and being dragged along on another of a series of errands that generally didn’t hold much interest for me. But this trip held promise. We were going to one of my favorite places . . . the bookstore. And for some reason my mom seemed to think it was more of an occasion than usual. I remember that she looked especially nice, but then my child’s heart held this view most of the time anyway.