Muna

Muna + me, last summer (2009)

My neighbor is the cutest little thing. Her name is Muna, she's seven and is usually in mismatched clothes including high water pants that accentuate her tiny frame.

Every afternoon around 3.15 p.m. I can count on seeing her. She knocks on our door after she gets home from school. We have sort of a standing play date: her, my sons Gabe (4) and Will (3) and of course me. She's really good with the boys, and it's been fun seeing her grow over the last year and a half. She's a good kid.

Yesterday the boys and I were outside after their naps which ended earlier than the recent usual. Gabe loves knocking on Muna's door and asking her to play in our backyard: this makes him feel like such a big boy. So yesterday he was asking if he could knock on her door. I knew she wasn't home yet, but nonetheless we went to the front yard to scope out the situation. As we arrived, her bus pulled up to the corner across the street from us, and we told her that we were waiting for her to come home to see if she could play with us. Her face lit up, she dropped her bag inside her front door and ran the 20 feet distance between us. Off we went. Another afternoon full of backyard adventure, snack time, story time, digging in mud, playing in sand.

A few minutes ago I heard knocking at the door during my peaceful nap-time break (sigh). It was–of course–Muna. I told her that the boys were sleeping and wouldn't be able to play this afternoon but that we could tomorrow.

Then she asked if we could do what we did and wait for her like yesterday.

Her yearning to know that someone would be waiting for her to come home from school melted my heart.

And I told her yes, we'd be waiting for her tomorrow.