“Mommy, Poppy has the best skin,” Finley said rubbing her soft, chubby arm that was reaching, the tips of her finger and thumb pinching for a pencil. “She never gets sun burned, and it looks so nice,” his voice veered from admiration to slight jealousy. Maybe it’s the squinting eyes while mom rubs you down with white, protective goop that stings your eyes, meanwhile Poppy is already catching her first waves in the tiny, foam boogy board.
Poppy grinned wide, pulling her face up creating a couple more chins of pride beneath her happy grin. Her smile, her gentle but powerful understanding of her worth reflecting the knowledge that Finley spoke; she is beautiful, precious in every way. She wears this easily, embracing others with this love that is reflected towards her. She gives as she receives.
“I wish I had her skin.”
Smiling, she rubs her arm and puts some red pencil marks onto her paper, not really to color, but to mimic her brother’s movements. And the conversation slips into art and monster trucks with big wheels, drifting past a small exchange for them, but one that meant something to me.