I carried the stripey caterpillar in my palm all day. My mother shot photographs of us taking a walk, riding the swings, sliding down the slide. I cupped it gently and let it pee in my hand. I never stopped beaming, maybe because I loved the little furry thing so much, maybe because it tickled as it wriggled to free itself from my clutch.
As my mother tells it, the caterpillar was neither squished nor squeezed, treated roughly or petted too hard. But, by dinnertime, I'd loved all its fur off and I cried my heart out when she forced me to leave the naked black worm in the garden and come to the table for chicken and peas.
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PS: I keep looking at this photo and cannot even get my head around how tiny my pants were! That little pantleg! With its little cuff! An my knees are, like, three inches from my ankle!
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