152 The Meadow She Runs Through Rooms Donna Emerson telling tales these seven years, sometimes aloud, more often in a whisper she thinks we can’t hear, of Lyra or Lily or Captain Swagger, orphans on islands or princesses who abdicate their thrones to conquer bigger worlds, like Lizbeth of Sweden. Sometimes she skips or stops to tell secrets behind cupped hands, running through rooms. Her nine-year-old hair reaches the color of warm chestnuts, flies after her, bounces close to her hips. Words, favorite words, come from my daughter’s lips, words to avoid. She frets over Carlos, He says the worst bad word every day. It starts with “f,” then a vowel, then a consonant blend. The word we can’t write on paper. Why do some boys say those words? She tells me today’s really good story
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