Page 66 of The Strawberry Field
And so did I. So did we.
Hannah wipes out mid-run, tumbling with a splash. From her seat at the back of the boat, Hattie barks frantically until Jake slows the boat and circles back. She watches, waiting, until we reach Hannah again.
“I’m okay, Hattie!” Hannah calls out, laughing as she swims.
That bond between them, it’s something special. Hattie’s claimed Hannah’s room as her own. No one asked her to. She just knew where she was needed most.
Sometimes, when Hannah skis, she uses Tommy’s old water ski. She knows it was his. One afternoon while we sat at the dock, I told her what a great skier he was, his ski resting beside us like a time capsule.
“He was brave,” she said, running her fingers over the worn bindings.“I want to be like that,” she added, without looking up.
And I remember thinking, she already is.
Hannah still has hard days. She grieved her grandmother deeply. We visit her grave site regularly, and Hannah takes flowers. Over time, with help and space, she’s come to believe it’s okay to feel joy again.And sometimes, it's braided with sadness. That's okay, too.
“I think I’m done for now!” she shouts.
Jake reaches down to lift her onto the boat.
“That was awesome,” he says.
She grins.“Not awesome yet, but I’m getting there.”
“I think you’re awesome,” Jake says, squeezing her shoulder. He hands her a towel, then turns to me.“You skiing?”
“I think I’m in a floating mood today,” I say.“Too peaceful not to just float.”
“Floating it is,” Jake says. He pulls out life jackets from under the seat, straps one on Hattie, and we all step onto the platform.
“Ready,” Hannah says.“Set. Go!”
We dive in.
Hattie belly-flops into the water and swims straight for Hannah, circling her once, then chasing water bugs across the surface.
“She never catches them,” Hannah says.“But she really tries.”
Jake chuckles.“I think they like teasing her.”
We float side by side, sunlight dancing on the water. Jake slips an arm around my waist, and I rest my head lightly against his shoulder.
From a few feet away, Hannah treads water, watching minnows flash below her toes.
“Mama?” she says.“Can we do that picnic float again this weekend? The one where we tie up to the dock and just read books and eat snacks?”
I smile.
Two years ago, she would never have asked for something like that. Grief and guilt have a way of making us think we don’t deserve happiness.
“I’d love that,” I say.“We’ll make it a tradition.”
Jake leans in and kisses my temple.“Perfect day,” he says.
“It really is.”
I kiss him, softly, slowly. When we pull apart, I whisper,“Thank you.”
“For what?”
