“Look!”

Cradled in outstretched toddler hand, a treasure.

“What is’t?”

I surmised immediately the origin and purpose of this newest wonder, I am, however, intrigued as to the deductive powers of my darling Cecily, so remain silent.

“Maybe it’s a…” nose to discovery, intricate details examined close, “a…from a robot, like somthun’ that makes him move, a big,” arms held out wide to approximate imagination’s size, “robot and he changed into a car, musta’ fell out or somethun.”

A fanciful function for such a mundane object, and an erroneous supposition, for I can vouchsafe that no mechanical creatures, in human or automotive guise, has tread these grounds. Nonetheless, the delight this notion brings to her countenance is purest joy for me.

“Or maybe it’s a…” held up high with one eye closed, the treasure eclipses the April morning sun, “from a plane – spaceship!” This idea twirls her around with glee. “And they were tryin’ to get away from the – glowy light swords,” the requisite buzzy whoosing noises that accompany a demonstration of this kind, “and they were like – and like – and then the knight was like -”  invisible foe fighting undaunted, “my hand, cut off my hand!” She crumples to the spongey grass, clutching her “wound”, utterly defeated, “and then he dropped his light sword and it got broke and then this fell out a window and down here.”

With the utmost confidence I can state that performance and plot infinitely more credible and interesting than those dismal prequels. Why the family continues to view them a puzzle I’ve yet to solve.

“Or maybe it’s a…” on her stomach, bent kneed legs waving a cheery hello, she pushes the object with a finger, long ago galaxies forgotten, “it’s a…from a dinosaur? Like a fossil?” Now looked at with a scientist’s eye, “a bone, like from his tail or hand, ‘cause it’s small, and years and years before, like before Nana Sybil was even born, he died right here, and the rest of him is buried right -” little hands burrow down between blades to the dirt below, “and all I gotta do to get the rest of the bones is -”

“Cecily!”

Ah, perfect timing, Mother, to forestall the impending archeological expedition.

“Get up from there, it’s still too damp, you’re going to get -”

My darling girl obliges, and – oh, dear, her attempt to rid third outfit today from dirt and grass merely smears black and green to abstract stain.

“Cecily.” Mother does take this daily routine in stride, of course. “Almost time for lunch. Let’s get those hands washed.”

Grilled cheese and tomato soup, and she needs no further incentive, off like a streak to modest ranch home, treasure clutched precious in sweet fist. “Mommy! Mommy! Look what I found!”

After lying hidden until the Spring thaw, until today, it had fallen unbeknownst this past February when the Jordan family – father, mother and doted on daughter - frolicked after season’s heaviest snowfall, making a snowman, engaging in a trifle one-sided – girls against the boy – snowball fight, and a particularly vigorous session of creating snow angels. Of the shank variety, oblong and pearl, the object a simple button from the winter coat of my dearest Cecily.

“Come on, Buster!”

But, what do I know, I’m just a Golden Retriever.