We built castles out of sawdust and imagination on a gray June day (it’s often gray in San Diego in early June; the weathercasters gave it a name…”June gloom”…and we have long since made our peace with it.)
We marveled at hummingbirds and brown doves that came to dance in the fountain in the garden or partake of some of the seeds set out to fill their avian bellies.
We took the time to literally stop and smell the roses (the yellow ones, the red ones, the white ones, and, especially, the pink ones…my companion loves pink.)
We walked “far, far away” and back again in almost less time than it took to tell the tale.
And on a train and a swing and an expressway between the land of snakes and the castles of princesses…all of which being embodied in the form of a rope secured between two trees in the front yard…my companion dangled from on high with the gleeful abandon and almost unlimited energy that is part and parcel of the experience of almost all four-year-olds.
“Whoa,” said I holding my companion securely as she reached for the ground with a soft symphony of giggles echoing through her small frame, “that’s a long way down! Aren’t you afraid?”
My companion frowned for an instant and then shook her head. “I’m not going to fall,” she said with calm assurance, “not while you’re holding me, Papa.”
Yeah. How silly of me to even raise such a foolish question.
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