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| Holding her beach ball in April this year. Photo by Kimi Fernandez |
Dear Butones,
That time you held your striped ball for the first time, trying to figure what the light object in white blue yellow red was (bigger, more definitely, than the baseball you roll and chase after on the carpet), I rued how summer was passing us by without our having gone near a body of water bigger than us.
Your tub isn't counted. You had long outgrown it and now take a bath under a running faucet, always thrilled by the feel of water.
Like an answered wish, an invitation to a beach wedding came. Faster than you can say "Go!", Mamay and Ate packed your things, including your deflated beach ball and mushroom-shaped floaters. They all went into a suitcase with your perpers and tushies, your toothbrush and swimsuit.
You left on a Friday, wide-eyed and restless in the car, and I had to stay behind, waving, waving, waving, already imagining how several hours later, small waves will be licking your toes and smaller handfuls of sand will be cupped in your palm.
You'll come back to me on a Sunday, nearly toasted by and smelling of the sun and squealing to free yourself from my huggy bear arms. I'll run some water in a pail, we'll let the yellow duck float, find a ball the size of my fist and I'll sing to you again the rowing song that turns your arms into sturdy paddles.
Hey, little ball of joyful motion, come home soon.
Booboo
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