Last night when the fog was hovering over the ocean and the lights from Dana Point Harbor were at our backs, we climbed up the hill to our hotel. Anson and Squishy were pushed in the stroller by Daddy, and Ever was perched on my shoulders like an African queen on safari. We paraded up a hundred stairs.
The flood light from the red roofs of the hotel spotted us in the park below, enough light to expose our shadows and the little cotton tails of the bunnies in the park. Ever jumped off my shoulders and started to chase them, they hopped in packs, little flashes of white like fireflies close to the ground. Anson chased too. Chasing and laughing, my children ran in the dark and the shadows, caught between the cliffs and the sea.
And from the stroller, Erin's olive eyes watched, barely able to keep them open after a long day traveling the interior of the great, dusty western frontier. Her day was spent confined to a car seat, consuming bottomless bottles and watching backwards all the miles between her crib and the silver Pacific.
The bunnies brushed by our feet, their shadows and white tails retreating to the bushes. We walked on, up the hill and into our hotel, where we opened the windows and let the spell of ocean air lull us all to sleep.
And in the morning the baby's bumpy skin was smooth, like milk or butter.
From Anson's Birthday Adventure.
