We drove to Denver, just the two of us, because I’d promised. She had birthday money burning a hole in her ever evolving brain. We spent significant time in American Eagle where I stood beside the entrance to the dressing room which is guarded by perky butted mannequins in bikinis, or underwear (I can’t tell which). I tried to think about hamburgers, and was almost successful. Next stop – Sephora – where we waded through a sea of girls and women, the air burdened with perfume and performance. My youngest daughter is drawn to this oxygen, I see this. Checklist checked, we motored home and I opened the sunroof so we could listen loudly to Meghan Trainor’s “No” plus that song about cake in the ocean, and several others. I sang the words wrong to them all, which she corrected with grins. She knows this game I play with her, called Keep the Conversation Going. So far my youngest daughter gladly plays along, I see this. The last song that spun was one of my new favorites, about that boy who once was seven years old. Aging man tears accompanied those lyrics, like they do every single time. She sees this.