Stina, my youngest daughter, was three, perhaps four years old. We were on a short daddy-daughter walk in the Angeles National Forest just north of the city.
A very small ant scurried across the sandy path, apparently quite intent on his destination. We studied it for a while. So busy, so sure of itself. “Do you think that ants have one soul each or that one soul runs an entire anthill?” I asked her. A question I had asked myself now and then.
Not taking her eyes of the little guy, she pondered this for a while. Then she looked up at me: “Red ants or black ants?”