The morning of Friday, April 2, was perfect—a cloudless, sunny sky, a gentle, cool breeze—an absolutely gorgeous spring day. Katy, who would be three at the end of July, and I walked Dylan, who would be seven at the end of August, to his first grade class at Mockingbird Elementary School five blocks away. Dylan, neatly dressed, hair combed, backpack squarely on his shoulders, lunch box in his hand, proudly led the way. I followed several steps behind. Another ten steps behind me strolled Katy, dawdling, pausing, looking at this, staring at that, stopping to pick up a feather, stopping again to inspect an ant, turning in circles, awed by one thing after another, barely able at all to keep moving forward. Finally I had to stop and wait for her. She had come to a complete halt in the middle of the sidewalk and had tilted her head way way back in order to look straight up in the air. I looked, too, and I didn't see anything.

"Come on, Katy."

Silence.

"Katy!"

No answer.

"Come on, Katy."

Not even an acknowledgment. I looked up again. The sky was empty. I walked back to where Katy stood. She smiled a big big smile. She beamed. She raised both of her arms straight up as far as they would go above her head and extended her fingers, her head still tilted back, her gaze directed skyward. She exclaimed:

"Bluuuue!"