Great Gain

She whirled through the front door, ahead of her grandmother -- if "whirled" is apt for one striking such a determined path.  It had been three years since the duo chanced upon our shop, caught up in the back-to-school rush, bringing that first pack for embroidery, because embroidery is what you call putting names and pictures on things with thread and our sign said that we did embroidery so is that right that we could put her name on?  
Please?  
This year I judged her lanky frame to have hit the third grade mark and I wondered if the grandmother might not after all be a great-grandmother.  Whatever the generational gap, she was definitely the authority and the girl yielded enthusiasm and energy almost seamlessly when the white haired woman spoke.

"Not a new backpack this year, because the bright yellow one with the turquoise name is still plenty big enough and has a lot of wear left in it.  But something new above the letters?  An animal maybe?  How about a kitty?"

"Or a wolf," asserted the bean pole as she looked the embroiderer directly in the eye.
"Do you have a wolf?"
Finding none that could be made small enough for a front pocket of a school bag she cheerfully acquiesced to the limitations.  
"A cat is good, too."

I wanted to hug her.
I also wanted to follow them around a bit because it soothed something in me to see the way she slipped the load out of her companion's arthritic hands, and hovered with the door open just long enough for the limping form to slip through. What had been given up and what had been gained by both parties to this unconventional alliance?  Surely the cost and benefit were incalculable, but perhaps the hindsight of years is necessary to the perceived value in loss of freedom to young and old.

The last stop was the thread display and four vivid shades were painstakingly discussed and evaluated against the athletic gold background.  Finally one was selected, with a concluding apology for the time spent.
"Ashlynn's a girl of all different colors," was the prosaic summary of a woman whose appearance hinted that life hadn't offered much in the way of poetry.  

Indeed she is.
Maybe I was accepting of disappointment when I was eight years old, but I don't think so.  I know it is not my tendency still at this stage of life.  When things can't conform to my projection of balance and beauty I make a massive mental mud puddle out of the perceived calamity, sit down in it, and twist my arms.   
What would a wolf mean to a nine-year old who seemed instinctively to pitch her volume and sharpen her enunciation for another?  
How might that image of beautiful strength intersect with the morass of a new grade at a new school?
Was she intrigued by the wildness? the peculiarity?  

"A cat is good, too."