We're sitting at the top of our third floor stairwell. Casie is painting her head board and I'm just twiddling. The Sound of Music Album is on the record player and a familiar song drifts up to us, its lyrics winding in and out of the banisters, finally finding us.
Your life little girl is an empty page, that men will want to write on...
We laughed and then for a second Casie paused, halting her painting she suddenly exclaimed: "And then they blame us for the ink!"
It might not make complete sense but I laughed pretty hard.