close behind

On the beach the salty ocean splashes her jeans, changing their color from periwinkle to deep navy.  The water of the Pacific is bitingly cold here, making me wince as it touches the soles of my feet.  But she doesn't seem to notice it like I do for she has the fortitude of youth and I have the comfortability of near middle age. With handfuls of wet sand and hair whipped by the coastal breeze she drives on through the receding tide. Frequently she stops, smiles up at me, points to the surf and chirps, "Mama!" as if confirming with me that I too am seeing the grandeur of the ocean with a novice's eyes.  I scoop her up and bury my face in her hair, breathing in the faint scent of apples intermingled with the slightly bitter odor of salted earth.

It's magic.  She is magic.

She arches her back in my arms and squirms to be set down.  There is no time for snuggles and kisses now. Too many birds to chase.  Too much water to feel.  A barking dog somewhere in the distance is waiting to be discovered.

I want her to stay mine forever; my sweet girl full of trust and absent of fear.  But I gently place her feet back on the cold wet sand to let her toddle forth ahead of me.  She looks back occasionally to assure herself that I am still near, still following close behind.

I am.  For as long as she needs me.