Somewhere That Summer Day

Somewhere that summer day, on the lawn, by the blue pool, under the eaves of a roof, next to my youngest daughter, I noticed gray clouds spread out to block the sun. A few robins flew off. The light became palatable and a sudden wind blew the smell of grass over us. We waited.  She demanded my arm. She demanded I place it over the pool. She poured cool water over it over and over and over. She, keep in mind, is the one too little to speak yet. I took it as a baptism. Did she know? Did she know how in need I was to recover, re-act, re-purpose, re-construct, rewire what my older daughter--the one who knows enough to poke the hard spots--had said? That thing about painted toenails and who deserves to have them. I am a leveled building. I am almost 39 years old. There is a principle at work here. There is an opportunity.