While I am arranging refrigerator magnets, there are girls up on their roofs and out on their patios doing any number of fascinating things. They are painting pictures or dancing riddles into the pavement under clear skies. There are girls on trams and streetcars waiting to go places, waiting to go home — wanting to go home. There are girls sitting in lecture halls at Sarah Lawrence and girls washing dishes, girls sending letters and receiving letters sometimes typewritten and sometimes scrawled out by hand. There are girls getting their first haircuts, meeting their first loves, and holding their own newborn baby girls against their chests. All the girls are growing into women, and I am arranging refrigerator magnets not noticing my own burgeoning womanhood splashing up against the kitchen windows trying to catch my attention.
