My daughter came over to me, opening her tiny palm to show me five unpopped popcorn kernels. I don't even ask her where she got five unpopped popcorn kernels. Best to not know.

MissSix: I am going to grow some corn.

Me: Ah. Good.

MissSix: I just wanted to let you know that.

Me: Well, I am glad you told me. I hope you have fun.

MissSix: It will be nice for us to have corn.

Me: Mmm hmm.

I could have told her about the futility of corn-growing on the first day of February in the Puget Sound area of the country, and this did flash through my mind, but I did not. Her dreams of beautiful green and yellow stalks of corn coming up through the dirt of our tiny manicured backyard garden, waving slightly in the breeze, delivering the most perfect juicy sweet corn ever, is infinitely more important than some flat reality. I would rather wish The Miracle Of The Corn upon her, and have it magically happen.

She takes a tiny finger and pushes each kernel into the black dirt, and carefully covers them up, and pats the ground, satisfied.

She comes back in and grabs her black-and-white lined composition book, her journal, and writes, then comes to show me what she has composed. The title of the entry, written in larger letters is "I AM GROEN" and the text is " I M Groeeing carne The sess r smol." Translated, "I AM GROWING" and "I am growing corn. The seeds are small." She shows me the picture she drew, of a seed seemingly exploding with electricity and the corn coming up in a great towering burst.

This is just a tiny moment of the day, gray and quiet, but there is something about it that moves me tremendously.