A day too innocent to be described.
There should be limits imposed on description: Thou shalt not name certain crystalline winter days, the kind which rise inexplicably soaked with blue. Thou shalt say nothing of the brown grass which blazes like a ripened chestnut beneath the dusk-sun. And chief of the commandments is this: Thou shalt not take the name of thy beloved daughter in vain (the one who is conquering the slide and squealing with glee).
This is really why I call her by this alias, Sophie. I know little about internet privacy, but I know a bit more about love. And love is always uttered in whispers, especially when explained to outsiders. When someone asks about my husband, expecting the sappy crap, I can't help but cringe and then stutter out something quite indifferent: he's a good man, I may say, or, he's funny. To say more is to compromise the real feeling, which is both more and less and in between the words which try to manage the emotion.
So here we are, struck still by blue. See it, and be glad. See it and be glad and stay silent.