The other night, I was up in Powell's bedroom, having just told Thomas and Pie their nightly bedtime story (these tales center on a chocolate-eating monster whom my sister is convinced resides in our pantry).
I was laying there next to them, as I sometimes do, indluging in drowziness, when Pie put a question to me.
"BB?" she asked. "How did God make us?"
"I don't know, sweetie," I answered. "I don't think anyone knows that."
She held her own arm out before her face and stared at the limb in amazement.
"What is this?" she whispered, her high little girl's voice full of awe.
"What is what, honey?" I asked, unsure whether to believe she was asking the question she was asking.
"This," she said, pinching the baby-soft flesh of around her wrist. "It's like He made us out of plastic."
I assured her that her hand was not plastic, and soon she drifted off to sleep.
I couldn't help but be struck by her wonder, by the ancient inquisitiveness of a mind so young. It made me love her even more.