“What’s it like being a nine year old girl?” I ask.
We’re in a Sushi joint in downtown Sebastabol. More Organic you-name-it stores per square foot than anywhere I’ve been. When you drive into town, a sign: Nuclear Free zone. This is the Vermont of California.
Her little brother gnaws happily on his chopsticks. She thinks for a moment, shrugs.
“I don’t know.”
I’m genuinely curious. I have zero frame of reference on the inner life of a little girl.
“Ok,” I say. “Is it different than when you were six?”
“Oh yes.” She smiles. “Definitely.”
No hesitation. “You’re taller and you know more stuff.”
Her mom looks at her, then at me. Kinda proud.
“Are you better off knowing more stuff?” I ask.
I’m not sure what my question actually means. Two glasses of wine with dinner will do that. To her credit, she noodles on it.
“Well,” she says, “I’m more scared of the monkey bars. I wasn’t when I was six.”
Her mom and I both stare at her.
“Why’s that?” I ask.
“I didn’t think back then. I just did it.”
“So being afraid, it comes from thinking?”
“I suppose,” she says. A pause. “Yes. Thinking too much.”