On an early morning walk:

A mother and her young (four or five years old) child go past me.
Mother (turning back): Wait, you’re Kate. Aren’t you Kate?
Me: I am! I am Kate!
Mother (to her child): Honey, this is the lady who wrote the Mercy Watson books.
Child: Oh.
Mother: (to child) You love Mercy Watson!
Mother: (to me) He loves Mercy Watson!
Me: So you like that pig?
Child: (solemnly) yes. (long pause) And also, I like Eugenia. (another long pause) I probably like Eugenia best of all.
Me: Oh, that makes me happy. Eugenia needs your affection, I think.
Child: Eugenia plays the accordion. I’m going to grow up and be an accordion player. And also a fireman like Ned. Also, I have a fish named Bob.
Mother: You don’t have a fish named Bob, honey.
Child: (to me) We’re going to get a fish and name him Bob.

Moments like these?
Utter, complete gifts.
Thank you, Mercy.
Thank you, Eugenia.
Thank you, young readers.
And Bob, I might write a story about you.

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