“Again!” Simon giggles. “Again!”
Lucy swipes at her hairline, loose curls sticking to her skin with sweat beading under the midday sun. “Aren’t you tired of the same old—”
“Nooo,” Simon whines, clapping his hands. “More!”
She smiles. Though she’s sent wave after wave of rainbow sparklers from her wand, Simon never tires of the miracle of magic. “How about something new?”
Bright blue eyes widen. Was she ever so young or curious? She had to have been. Otherwise, how else would Davy have snared her?
Lucy shakes her head, golden curls bouncing. Warm summer days don’t permit him; not anymore. She’s here with her son, safe in California, far from his influence.
Simon reaches out a chubby hand. She clasps it.
“Watch,” she says, a smile growing on her face while bitter memories fade into the distance. She raises her wand, her father’s. He died too young but his spirit lives on in her magic.
An iridescent bubble inflates from the tip of her magickal instrument. It grows, and grows, and hovers in the air between them.
“Reach out your hand, my love.”
Simon furrows his tiny eyebrows, purses his fat lips, sticks out his pink, adorable tongue. Pokes one finger into the center of the bubble she’s spelled for him.
“Oh!” he says when the magic draws him into its center.
For a second, Lucy holds her breath.
What if it steals him? What if it scares him?
Simon laughs as he falls into the bubble. “Mama, look!”
“You’re so brave, my love,” she gasps, tears beading on her eyelashes. “Hold fast!”
His laughter builds and grows and tugs at her heartstrings. Birds sing a harmonic song. The wind flows and rushes, grass sways underneath him. A whole symphony of nature rising up to whisk Simon to heights unknown.
The bubble lifts and dances. Simon giggles and squeals.
Lucy can’t tear her eyes away; wouldn’t if she could.
Then, the wind shifts. On it’s shout, Lucy hears, “Davy.”
Simon gasps; the bubble tilts.
And plummets to the ground.
Lucy catches him in her arm, the bubble burst, her son sticky and shaking in its absence.
“Hush,” Lucy soothes, “I’ve got you. I’ve caught you.” Simon buries his face in her chest. “I’ll always catch you.”
She wraps her arms around her son, dancing in her own way. It’s not as freeing as the way wind shook him, held him, swayed him in its embrace.
She’s on the ground, and it’s not the same.
“Don’t you know,” she whispers, “my rosebud boy. You’re my roots and I am yours. I’ll always be here to catch you, to hold you.”
Slowly, she feels the quick pulse of his heart slow.
Safe, she hears whispered on the wind. Safe.
One day, she won’t be able to protect him. One day, he’ll have to stand on his own.
Lucy holds her son close to her chest and she breathes a sigh of relief. She is here and he is safe and, more importantly, he knows he is loved.
