Naiad

When she was little, it was ballet -- the short hops and earnest spasms of an earthbound angel whose jetes were still years from grand. But even then, there was the hand - swanlike and graceful, the hand of a porcelain figurine, cool and delicate in my own bear's paw. Perfect - not like the knees that would betray her time and again.

These days, we get mail from colleges -- hopeful, helpful, happy brochures that emphasize the benefits of an Ivy League education but downplay the cost. She can hardly wait for the bounty the daily mail will bring. And she brings them to me, holding them out like she used to hold worms and lizards: "Look, Daddy. Look what I got!" There are spots on those fingers, rubbed raw from work and worry, the grist of life that erodes even as it polishes. We talk about the perils of perfection and the divinity of forgiveness -- of self, of others.

Yesterday, I stood behind the starting blocks, parsing the moment with the surgical click, click, click of my digital shutter, I saw it there in mid air. The swan, rising from the waters. My heart leapt, and it was grand.
 
The good stuff:
 
barbecue at midnight
delusions of grandeur
grandeur
dreams dared and done
riding a bike to dinner
harvest balls
a walk on a cool morning
family reunions
taking lemons and making - a Tom Collins
centipedes