der Stempel

Sharp as a tack she is, that little girl. Smacking of Play-Doh on this particular afternoon, she stands there before me with bits of colorful goop under her fingernails.
"What are you looking at?" she asks.
"If you go wash your hands first, I'll show you."
My Grandpapa's stamp box is in my hands. He was born in 1907, and some of the little squares of paper are from his Grandpapa Constantin's day.
My godchild scampers off towards the bathroom and is back in a flash. Now her hands are dripping soapy water.
"Gah!" I cover the open box with my arms.
"There were no towels in the bathroom."
"Go get the one in the kitchen."
She does and then hops up beside me on the sofa, proudly displays both hands, and with a smile says, "Ooh ~ stamps!"
"Yes. They're very old."
"How old is that one?"
"Which one?"
"That dirty one."
Before I can explain that it is only a smudged postmark, she leans over to look underneath the box.
"What are you looking at?"
"Just checking to see if you washed your hands!"