Bubble Blowing

2007-11-04
11:35 p.m.

Love. As ephemeral as the bubbles I blow for the baby. �Buh�ble?� he�ll call out, with the rising inflection of a question as he chases them, laughing with unrestrained glee. And when they pop, as bubbles are wont to do, he looks around hoping to find more. �All gone� I�ll say we easily find a new toy to make him laugh.

The season is changing. Moving from summer to fall and, finally, to the long cold months of winter. The leaves are changing. Moving from green to gold and, finally, the irrevocable drop to skitter along the street and disappear to wherever leaves go.

Even my street is changing. The New Jersey Forestry division began trimming limbs all along our tree-lined street. The tree just to the left of the house disappeared altogether when they found it was a hollow shell - little more than an accident waiting to happen.

I held my ever curious grandson up to the second floor window to watch the elaborate take-down proceedings. And as the branches of the tree were severed and dropped, one by one, all the leaves flew madly by like snowflakes caught in the wind.

�Buh..ble?� he said, pointing to the leaves. And I had to laugh. Because for him, even momentary bubbles are wonderful.

Perhaps I should be a lot more like him. Accept that bubbles pop. And settle for what is.

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