What I Didn't Photograph

A girl of seven or eight, in a froth of white net and organza, veil swept back, stands at the door of the wooden apartment house. Top of the stoop, she's as solemn and nervous as any bride, and her mother, waiting below on the sidewalk, keeps glancing up the street.  Finally the van pulls up, all ribbons and balloons, and flowers. The girl looks over to where we're watching, breaks into a grin, rewards us with a big, bold, bouncy wave. And off she goes.