puddle jumping

She grasped my hand with all the might her tiny little fingers could muster. I looked down and saw a childhood shine back at me as we skipped through massive puddles that almost swallowed her whole. Her slicker which was once a bright yellow was now a pallid shade of orange, her hair matted with specks of mud and water droplets making trails down her cheeks.
I laughed. It was not the time to be a motherly sort. It was time to be the Mary Poppins. The one whom could create magic out of anything. And she giggled that giggle that only content little girls can giggle. I almost cried to hear her happiness once more.
Where had I gone this past year? Where had I skipped off to myself? Where I had gone was not near as happy or carefree. It was fraught with tremors and cold night air. It was dark and dank and almost cavernous. The only water droplets surrounding me had a lonely echo and was nothing near to the effect that had taken place upon her cheeks.
But we were happy once again. My sneakers caked with mud and dirt against her yellow, orange and black puddle jumpers that were still a tad bit too large for her little toes.
My feet were soaked, she was a mess but finally we had reached the park where puddles were strewn across the playground as if they were tiny lakes upon our own continent.

Ours to play in. Ours to drain. Our time.

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