By Stephen C. Schultz “Mom!... Mom!... Mom!” she exclaimed as she burst into the room. The rough, worn door—weathered by age—stuck for just a moment as she turned the knob and simultaneously shoved it with her shoulder. With a single, unrestrained motion, she was through. The glass pane rattled, and the faux wood blinds swayed back and forth as she caught the edge of the door with a left-handed backswing, sending it whistling shut behind her. Past the old wood stove and into the kitchen, she kept calling, “Mom!... Mom!” While I’m not her mom, but her dad, I finally responded, “What is it, hon? What’s the matter?” She turned toward me, breathing heavily, and said with excitement, “It was so cool! We sang Over the Rainbow and Puff the Magic Dragon with them!” Still catching her breath, her words came in short, rapid bursts. “We even painted their nails! It was so fun… but so sad. They were so happy to see us. One lady even played the ukulele—she was so talented!” Th...
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