Kori and her daughter (part 1 of 3)

When Kori’s daughter was born, her head sprouted wisps of soft gold that didn’t become hair until she was three years old. Now, two years later, her hair hangs below her elbows.

Kori and her daughter walk hand-in-hand down Cimarron Avenue, the main street in town. Just one block away, they pulled the red doorknob to close the front door of their simple yet significant yellow house. At the end of their street, they turned right on Cimarron Avenue, and now they head toward town.

They walk past Mrs. Ginger’s, who often makes snicker doodles, which explains why Kori’s daughter insists that they’re now walking down Cinnamon Avenue.

-“Mama, if people grew grass inside like carpet, could they have picnics in front of the TV at dinnertime?”

-“I suppose, if they mowed regularly, hon.”

-“If birds had paws instead of wings, would they still chirp?”

-“Only in the mornings.”

-“Why did God make sunsets blue and orange?”

-“Because he’s a Broncos fan.”

They pass the barbershop, the grocery store, Starbucks and the elementary school. Kori’s daughter runs to swing on the “big kid” swing, while Kori rests on a bench. She watches the sun beat down on her daughter’s face as she swings, eyes closed and her head dropped back, pumping her legs to swing higher.

Kori smiles to herself, thinking about the many questions her daughter asks. Rarely does she make a statement without stuffing it between two questions: “What time is lunch? I want peanut butter and jelly. Why does Peter Pan have his own brand, if Neverland only had pretend food?”

Lately, when Kori has been too tired to think of a normal answer, and an “uh-huh” won’t do, she responds with whatever explanation comes to her first: “Oh, silly, it was because that was Wendy’s favorite food, and when she went with Peter to Neverland, she missed it so much that Peter made some for her. The first real food in Neverland.”

Their dialogue energizes Kori, because her daughter seems to contemplate everything until it makes perfect sense, like Peter Pan’s peanut butter, and Kori loves to watch her chew on her bottom lip with a slight frown until she nods her head in acceptance and moves on to the next question.

This could pose a problem in a few years, Kori thinks, when her daughter explains to someone that black and white movies are made by people who live in the TV and aren’t good enough at their job to get color, or that flowers really do have tea parties, like in Alice in Wonderland.

Thinking about those few years from now, Kori feels a tinge of sadness and calls her daughter to come so they can finish their walk.

Again hand-in-hand, they stroll to the end of Cimarron Avenue, stopping to rest a few times along the way. Kori’s daughter chatters away, pointing at yellow flowers and stopping in awe to touch the delicate pedals. Kori smoothes her daughter’s hair and twirls it between her fingers.

It’s amazing, Kori thinks, how her daughter’s hair, once so fine and thin, is now long, and she looks like a big girl.

Kori’s head lost its last wisp of hair this morning.

Eight months ago, Kori didn’t know that one phone call could escort a visitor into their lives that would steal her womanhood and pillage her faith. The doctors call him cancer, but she still can’t say the name of her attacker.