I APPROACH THE metal detector in our county courthouse, bag in hand. The officer operating the machine looks confused, and I’m sure he’s thinking of the sign I passed that clearly says, No bags in the courtroom.
This is obviously a diaper bag and, obviously, exceptions must be made.
The officer decides that I can proceed with the bag but that I must leave it in a closet downstairs. If I need a diaper, I can run back down.
My partner, Raven, follows me, baby in arms. The baby looks exquisite in a satin sundress, pink with white polka dots, with a yellow sweater because the air conditioning will be cranked low. She wears tiny leather moccasins with pink butterflies on them.
“Mariposa,” I say to her, pointing to a butterfly.
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