My neighbor steps out her front door on this very chilly morning as I’m putting stuff in the trunk of car. “I’m goin’ someplace,” she says, matter-of-factly. She’s bundled up in a pink boots, pink striped pants, a hat, coat and mittens. She’s twirling around on her front porch.

These are all the facts I get. She’s five.

 “That sounds fun!” I tell her.

“I like going someplace,” she says and then she’s chasing her big brother around the yard a couple times and back to twirling on the porch. It’s 15 degrees out.

A few details emerge. They're going far, she says, maybe New York, maybe a party. Whenever this someplace is, there’ll be cake.

I think back to five, when I was, when our kids were, and how cozy it was to pile into the car, parents, kids, cousins, headed who knew where together. 
Sometimes someplace is just enough.