"Do our souls have skin colors?" he asked folding her tiny five year-old hands within his large, age-marked, callous palms.
She looked at him perplexed, wrinkling her tiny forehead in concentration.
"Have you ever seen your own soul?" he prodded further, looking into her eyes as they watched him intently.
"No..." she ventured finally, uncertain whether or not she ever had and what a soul looked like.
He smiled at her benignly in his wonderful grandfatherly way and she smiled back, bubbly with happiness that she had figured out the right answer.
"Poppy," she climbed into his lap and rested her head against his wide chest listening to his heart beat. He smelled like cinnamon. "Have you seen your soul?"
"No sweetheart, I never saw m'soul. But I just wonder whether we should be judgin' people by the color of their skin, or the pureness of their souls instead."
Later she peered deeply into the hallway mirror at herself trying looking past her blue eyes and brown curly hair to see if she could see her soul. Wondering maybe if it had a skin color.
(c) Molly Ann Elian 2008