The wind skims water off the fountain. The droplets prickle on our skin. I'm happy to be with family on this fine sunny day.
He tries to detach my arm from my body; as I play along, falling over in the booth, he laughs. Later on as he sits on his father's shoulders, he leans over for a kiss on the cheek and tells me he loves me.
We make a water wheel turn, manipulate mirrors, watch a black hole emerge from a supernova. Dinosaurs lean towards us for a closer look as we peer at them through 3D specs. We clamber inside a giant heart, climb to the top of a lighthouse, and escape from a bottomless gift shop.
In the early morning the trees on my block toss their leaf-shadow onto the brick walls.
At the miniature golf course in Franklin Square the kids are innovating with the sport. They swing their putters at the ball (golf), kick the ball around (soccer), and dunk the ball into the hole (basketball). When basketsoccergolf fails to divert, there's enough water around to plonk the balls into (scuba diving). The golf course also gives them a mini-tour of Philadelphia; major landmarks appear in small scale. At one hole you have to hit the ball through the crack in the Liberty Bell. At another you have to whack it up a steep hill and into one of three possible tunnels in the Art Museum. The kids like dropping the balls into tunnels and seeing where they'll next emerge.
The soothing redolence of sunscreen - I think of sunshine, water, long walks, powder blue skies.
He knows I don't like to talk about my problems. That's why, after my initial denials, he keeps asking questions - not intrusively, but just enough to let me understand that he cares and wants to know enough to offer advice. I start to sketch things out for him - a little bit in the cab ride, a lot more on the walk home along the streets baking and the bridge flashing in the sun. Nothing's solved yet, but I do feel a little better by the end of our conversation.