She left the house before I had a chance to wish her a good day at school. 
 
Her mornings probably benefit little from the ritual exchange.  
 
My days are different from hers. 
 
From the window I could see her step on to the sidewalk and start her way up forty-seventh street. 
 
I took my phone and sent her a text message as she scurried away: 
 
"BURIED WITH A DONKEY.  
HE MY FAVOURITE HONKEY." 
 
She stopped, fiddled with her phone for a second and, without looking back, continued on until she'd passed out of my view. 
 
A few seconds later my phone buzzed to life with a much anticipated response: 
 
"WHY?" 
 
That'll do for this day. That'll do.