Bruno Rescigna
Her pail overflowed.
The one with the yellow
smiling octopus painted
on the side dripped wet sand
as she walked unsteadily away
from the grey-headed waves.
Near our blanket, she turned the pail
over, careful to keep the shape
of the pail, then returned for another load
repeating the process until she collected
a circle of pail-shaped hills.
Her grandmother and I wondered
if this wasn’t a tell about her interests,
a peek into her little psyche we may
never view again.
Quickly, we launched into a sketch
of an educational plan, wondering about schools
with good architecture programs,
when her cry snapped us back to the immediate.
The waves gobbled up the little, blue shovel
that she’d dropped on one of her returns to dump sand.
I trotted down to the water to find it, while grandma
comforted our little architect.
Further discussion of the appropriate college postponed.