He catches a face full of the stuff - how much salt must have been netted by his wide open eyes and mouth like a whale passively vacuuming krill fathoms deeper than this shoreline playground?

As much at least as the inside of the folded bag of sour cream and onion potato chips that lay abandoned by the small stranger’s perpetually salty fingers, first covered by chip residue and now by the sea.

He stands, shocked and blinking and reacquainting himself with what it means to be vertical-

“I got knocked over!!!” He shrieks to his watching parents and I feel exclamation points could have been invented solely for this one sentence born out of those two enthusiastic lungs.

A muted jealousy creeps in behind the tide and tentatively taps my tepid toes with knowingness; I did not wear the proper shoes to get wet.

I smile at his smiling and try to taste the sea air as best I can, but maturity is an oppressive weight on my shoulders and it keeps me rooted to the sand some safe distance from the unfledged euphoria reserved only for being toppled by a wave.