By Linda Dunlavy

November 24, 2014


A thunderstorm breaks this morning. Afterwards, my nine-year-old daughter calls me to come outside and look. I go, resisting the temptation to finish washing the dishes first. My youngest child won’t be young much longer.

The soft, still air feels like forgiveness after the sky’s wild outburst. My daughter is admiring hundreds of raindrops clinging to spider webs in the corner of our front stairs. I usually remove these webs with a flick of the broom. But not today – they are transformed, bejeweled, and their splendor leaves me powerless to disturb them.

We lean in to stare, our heads inches apart. The familiar scent of her skin hangs faintly in the dewy air. A swath of damp blonde hair sticks to her face, defining her jaw. We tilt our heads, wanting more views of the resplendent sunlight reflected in each tiny drop.

“If those were diamonds, I’d like to have that for a necklace,” she declares, running her fingers over her collarbones.

“Oooh,” I say, “that would be so pretty.”

We linger and contemplate some more, while the birds make their excited post-rain ruckus.

Then she declares, “A few drops would be a flood for an ant!”

“Yes, you’re right, sweets.”

I tuck the lock of hair behind her ear and nuzzle the softness of her neck.

“Sometimes tiny things aren’t tiny at all.”


Photo "Spiderweb" provided by 55laney69, via Flickr creative commons license.

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