7:00 a.m. The yellow slicker makes its reappearance. Blowing bubbles in the summer rain. She sings, Rain, rain go away, have again another day! She asks me to come out and splash in the puddles.
I would like to live inside this summer forever. To keep the sun and warm rain, to keep her small.
She is a toddler now. Knows joy the way I know shame. Closely; as if kin. Lake water that splashes against a wall and into her face is the ultimate in the earth’s gifts. She wears no shirt and no shoes and is slathered in the white porcelain shell of sunblock. The deadly rays, the vitalizing rays; we relish in them both. At the same time. She never wants to go home. She puts an arm around me as if she is my grandmother and says “Oh, honey.” As if she is telling me: oh honey, there is so much great stuff ahead. Just you wait; I know these things.
-Jennifer Fliss, Milwaukee. Rust. A Baby.
(Post 192 of 365)