He remembers the paths we walked last year, along the beach and across the cliff-top fields toward the seal rookery. I let him lead. We never get lost.
Each day, he speeds down the beach, twirling two rubber snakes in his hands. I stop trying to keep up, but instead hold back to see how far he will really get before he notices I’m not with him. He goes, and goes, and goes. Do I need to run? No, now he stops. He finds me with his eyes, far back along the beach. He turns back. He never comes all the way to me, but just enough so that we are close, walking on together again in the same direction.
I spy a tiny speck of red and black crawling up the sand and I pick it up to show him. He labels it quickly – ladybug – apparently unimpressed, and moves on. Read More