I am getting a pedicure. The technician has lulled me into a stupor with her gentle, rhythmic foot massage.
Nearby, two little girls are chanting one of those pat-a-cake rhymes that every generation has had since there were little girls.
My version had something to do with a cookie jar.
As I watch them I remember my own daughter, giggling with her friends about nothing. And a single tear escapes from each eye.
This seems awkward in a nail salon and I discreetly brush them aside. And smile.