The moment I blew liquid soap through a plastic yellow wand, bubbles caught on a breath of air, twisted and flew out of sight behind an evergreen tree. She turned and ran, chasing after them even though the wind which carried them was much faster than she would ever be. I called for her to stop and as hard as it must have been for a sprite all of two years old to listen, she did stop.
She squatted down on her haunches, pointed in the direction of the breeze, eyes sparkling, “Bubbles! Hannah chase bubbles!!”
She was ready to go after those glistening orbs with nothing but blind faith. To her, they were just out of sight behind the tree which stood in her way. To her, that tree and my ‘I mean it missy‘ serious tone were the only obstacles between ready fingers and those bubbles. “Mommy? Hannah chase?” she asked.
I didn’t know what to say but knew if I didn’t address it she would continue to ask and plead for the freedom to run. So I explained what happened as best I could. I told her how it was too windy out for bubbles. How they were blown away and gone. How they wouldn’t come back. As I was speaking I could see the understanding grow in her eyes, the disappointment and the disdain for knowing the truth.
I couldn’t bring myself to tell her that they’d popped. That by design the surface was so delicate, so thin that they didn’t have a chance against the wind, or the prickly branches of the surrounding evergreens. She wouldn’t have understood that much like her babyhood innocence, bubbles couldn’t last forever no matter how badly we both want them to.
I just hope she listens as intently when, at a much older age, I explain to her that sometimes things which appear delicate and out of reach are worth chasing with as much faith as we can muster.
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