Friday: we are little girls, dreaming, dawdling, playing, and promising never to be grown ups, never to sit around and just talk. Saturday: we talk, sometimes, but we still know how to build treehouses and lay hidden in the overgrown green of the next-door paddock. Sunday: we forget our promises never to be grown ups because it happens, almost, when we were not looking. Someday: someday is here, and I have grey hairs, and I cry, but not just about the grey hairs. It is someday and it's not what we expected. It's harder than we expected and it's worse than we expected. But it's easier than we expected, and it's better than we expected. Someday: and there are other little girls, and they are our little girls. One of them dreams and dawdles and plays and wants to be grown up right now. We could not slow the growing up down, and she cannot speed it up. She looks at us and wonders why we just sit around and talk. But we realise now that it's exactly what we want to do, and it is good.
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