"How can you taste green?" she asked with a mixture of sneering and unabashed curiosity. "Green is a color, you can't taste colors." She had such a self-congratulatory look on her face, I simply couldn't resist, "What? You never ate a few Crayolas?"
Her sand freckled nose wrinkled up. "Certainly not. I am not a moron."
I laughed. She took offense. "I have a Masters degree from a very well respected Ivy League school. I can speak in italics too. So that means that I am not a moron either." I stuck my tongue out at her playfully. She giggled.
"Well, if your school was covered in ivy then I guess you had plenty of green," she observed and nodded her head with complete confidence.
She had no idea what a wonderful observation she had made. I giggled and nodded. I thanked her from the bottom of my heart. She plainly didn't understand, but she didn't need to understand. She happily scooped up her yellow pail and skipped over the tide sodden beach having clearly forgotten me and my foolish assertions.
I have always believed the best thing about children under the age of eight is how quickly they forgive. When you find yourself alone with a broken heart, the best thing you can do is plant yourself on a beach teeming with small children and wait. When one draws near, make an absurd assertion, and let the healing begin. Her name was Lily. My mind thought of lily pads and lily pads are green so I said, "Have you ever tasted green?"