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"Laurie, why did God put all that water out there?"
She spread her three-year-old arms out wide to the ocean, with which she was precariously making friends, running down and teetering on the edge of the water til the baby waves splashed over her feet, then quickly running back, countless times. It wasn't getting old.
Oh. Wow. Is that multiple choice? Be fast with the thinking, woman.
"I don't really know how it happened, sweet pea. But I guess he needed something to balance out all the earth and sand? Does that make sense?"
And um, there is matter, and the matter is in different forms, and this water matter came up out of the earth and oh wow, I'm so bad at science. It wasn't like I was actually painting my nails in class, although there were the multiple sub-par attempts at geology in college.
"Yeah."
"Okay? I'm sorry I don't know more."
"Yeah. I still like it."
"Me too."
And that was that. It may be bad to admit in response to such a heavy question that you have no idea, but I often don't know what else to do besides turn them into a discussion because me, what the hell do I know, so let's just be partners in not knowing. Solidarity - especially in wondering about things - is cool. And one of the bigger rocks of my life is that if I don't know the answer I say that. And in this case, out of deference to her parents' theology, I left the premise of the question alone completely. I'd been asked to be a godmother of sorts. Some things even I don't argue.
**************************
The day before, her mother, my cousin and oldest friend, stood in the hallway of our beach place in a sun hat and asked me if I was going to come out and play in the sand - with her, mind you, not her child.
Building sand castles was big business for us as children spending a week together on this same vacation every year. She was into form and structure, whereas I've always specialized in the wet sand drippy variety given my challenges with both of those things. Her asking me this dead seriously at 38 in the same words she probably used at 8 meant I needed to pretend to need something in the other room so I could really just wipe tears away with a beach towel.
"I was wondering when you were going to come out and play with me," she said.
It's like oxygen to feel so valued, and you don't know you're suffocating til you get it sometimes. I am six months older. Our fathers are brothers. Our path together has been long and not always smooth, but she's on my I'd-take-a-bullet shortlist, because I get all girlified Clint Eastwood sometimes when I love you. And when it comes down to important things like a day at the beach, we all still need to play - we need the people who do it with us to be people we trust, who are fun, and in some cases who have been there for a long time.
The people in my life are generous in sharing their children with me. And it occurred to me a few times in a week lived by an immense body of water - did I mention it goes all the way to Europe, hello - with two little people I care about that one of the only good things about not having my own children might be the preservation of my remaining nerves. Even watching kids I love who are still in no way my own, I'm an overseer who makes up funny nicknames and makes stupid faces and basically keeps them in comedy routine mode for days, but the whole time, I'm watching you, ocean, so back off because I'll cut you. I'll cut...water. That's right. And I'm grabbing the three-year-old's hand although she's all, LET ME GO I'M OKAY and yelling obnoxiously at the seven-year-old to go against the current to swim back a little, before he's pulled halfway to the pier and can't find his way back because he's not paying a bit of attention to where anyone or anything is and WHY IS NO ONE ELSE NOTICING THIS TRAGEDY IN WAITING HERE? WHERE ARE YOU ALL? I AM ONLY ONE PERSON WHO IS NOT A STRONG SWIMMER.
It's so
