They say God is happiest when His children are at play.
~ Hardy Greaves, The Legend of Bagger Vance
We walk upon the cement floor, amidst the wooden folding chairs where auction-goers sit every Saturday night, looking for that one thing. The thing we came for. We found it on the third and rusting shelf down, next to the toy gun caps and the ceramic salt and pepper shakers in the shape of whitetail deer.
She grabbed it and ran to the counter, the once-dormant spring alive and well in her step, and despite the bounce of anticipation waited for her change. I ran out of breath trying to keep up with her on our walk (run?) home.
I don’t get too worked up over the passing of seasons. I’ve known the transitions, lived through my share of false starts. Fumbled segues. I’ve learned not to get used to the sunshine, to the warmer air that prods me to reluctantly wear my sweatshirt sleeves at half mast.
Not her. A hint of waning chill and she’s outside, rolling in grass that’s hitting the snooze button and cursing the tulips and their obnoxious peeking.
Today, she sets a determined gaze on the driveway . . .
The rains come later that evening and wash it all into the culvert. But I am learning, slowly, to not fret, for it never really disappears . . .