Raised By The Wind Maybe

The old man and the little girl were on their way to the beach. She lived with her grandfather and grandmother in a condo on Pescadero Street. She rode a red tricycle with a blue bell on the handlebars.

They went along a small winding lane with small wooden beach cottages and tiny gardens on either side.
“Grandad?” the little girl said. Her name was Cristina. “I want to be raised by giraffes.”
“How come?”, her grandfather asked.
“Because they have long necks and can eat the leaves nobody else can reach.
And they have hard lips and long purple tongues so the thorns in the boolie boolie trees can’t hurt them.”

“Well, if you were raised by giraffes you couldn’t ride that little red trike.”
“I know,” Cristina said and peddled off as fast as she could down the
narrow lane. She looped around and came pedaling back as fast as she had gone.
She circled her grandfather and slowed down to ride beside him as he walked.
The old man saw two Siamese cats in a window of one of the cottages. One
was asleep and the other sat looking out at them.
“How would you like to be raised by cats?” he asked the little girl. “They
can teach you how to lick your paw and wash your face with it, and purr and rub
against people’s legs, and look for a long time at things without moving so much
as a hair. Like that one in the window.”
“No,” said Cristina, “I don’t want to be raised by cats. They can’t reach the
boolie boolie trees.”

They turned into an alley to where there was a big back yard filled with
palms and bushes with flowers and tall grass almost hiding a child’s swing. The
old man and little girl stopped to look in between the boards of the wooden fence.
“I want to go in there,” Cristina said.
“There could be lions in the tall grass. They could teach you to stalk zebras
and wildebeests, and roar at night so everyone could hear you for miles around.”
“I don’t think so, Grandpa. Are there lions in there, do you think?”
“Maybe some zebras. Would you like to be raised by zebras?”
“I do not want to be raised by zebras, I want to be raised by giraffes is what
I told you.” Cristina rode off on her red trike down the narrow alleyway.
Cristina stopped at the big oak tree and got off her trike. “I want to climb
this tree and maybe live up there for awhile,” she said as her grandfather came
along.

“You could be the tree’s daughter, you know?” he said, leaning against the
trunk to rest. For such a big tree the branches had very tiny leaves with some
sharp points along the edges. “I could come along in the mornings, lean here and
talk with you. There’d be birds in your branches and maybe some monkeys. The
tree could teach you to put roots down deep into the earth and sway in the wind
and rustle your leaves.”

Cristina watched him carefully as he spoke, considering the idea. The old
man looked up. “Hear that? Such a pretty sound, rustling in the wind. I’d stand
here and lean against you and listen to your rustling and the birds singing. Maybe
a little boy would build a tree house in your branches and keep you company.”
Cristina leaned against her grandfather as he leaned against the tree in
thought. She made up her mind and got back on her trike.

“Don’t you want to be raised by a tree?” the old man asked.
“No, I couldn’t play. I would be sitting alone and having things like boys in
my hair and not be able to do anything about it.” Cristina rode off down the alley
road again ringing the blue bell on the handlebars and singing a siren noise.
Now Cristina and the old man could see the ocean and hear the surf. There
were seven pelicans sliding along above them on still wings riding the salty air
lifted by breaking waves. They passed the last cottage and stopped on a low
sandstone cliff above the sand.

The day was clear, the sun was bright and warm
and the surf made a soothing sound below them as it rolled in then eased back out
to sea. Cristina waited for her grandfather to take her down the steep dirt path. He
lifted the tricycle in one hand and took her small hand in the other.
“Giraffes mostly never go to the beach,” he said to her as they stepped
carefully along.
“How come?” she asked.
“Because there are no boolie boolie trees. And besides,the giraffes lose all
their yellow when they tan.”
“Does the yellow come back?” she wanted to know.
“Don’t know. Only the wind knows that,” her grandfather replied.
“How does it know?” Cristina asked.
“The wind knows all secrets.”
“Really?” Cristina held tightly to the old man’s hand so she wouldn’t slip
on the steepness of the path. A small gust of wind brushed against her face cool
and salty.

“If you were the wind, you’d know,” he said.
“But then I couldn’t hold your hand, grandpa.”
The old man considered this for awhile. “Well, that’s true but you’d always
be with me, except on the windiest days, and I’d like that.”
“Tell me what it’s like to be the wind.” They were down to the sand now
and the little girl kicked off her sandals and wiggled her toes in the sand. The old
man set her trike down and sat carefully on its little seat to take off his shoes. He
was silent as he untied his shoelaces.
“If I was raised by the wind,” she went on, “I wouldn’t get to be with you
very much because the wind is so big and you’re so small. I would have to be
very still to be with you and I don’t like to be still. I’d just be air.”
“That's true, I hadn't thought of that. And I wouldn’t get to carry you in my
arms,” the grandfather said, pulling off his socks and folding them into the tops of
his shoes. “Or see your lovely shining face, or go on little walks like this. And
your tricycle would be very lonely without you.”

Cristina nodded, looking at the little trike her grandfather sat upon.
“Maybe the sea,” she said, mostly to herself. She was worried about being
the wind. If she was blowing hard she’d go right past her grandpa. If she wasn’t
she would just be some air next to him. He wouldn’t even know she was there
because she couldn’t say anything to him at all. Wind only knows one word.
“Wooooo,” she said very softly.
They walked hand in hand down to where the waves rolled in. “I love the
sea, grandpa.” The foamy surf rolled over the tops of their bare feet and made her
jump a little and laugh at herself. Cristina chased the fans of foam and they chased
her back.

The grandfather thought of how it might be if the ocean raised this little
girl he cared for so much. She would learn to have fish swimming in her stomach
and whales and dolphins, and on her back would be ships and boats. She would
bring sea shells and all sorts of gifts like masts and capstans and wood rudders and
fishnet balls onto the shore and leave them there for people to find. She would
wash over her grandfather’s toes when he went down to see her but he wouldn’t
be able to hear her laughter, or take away her tears when she was hurt or sad. He
wouldn’t really even be able to tell if these were tears washing over his toes or
just plain sea water. The sea wouldn’t fall asleep against his shoulder or eat pizza
or hold his hand, and he would never know where the doll he gave her went. It
could be on a beach on Easter Island. He’d never know.

When Cristina came running back the old man bent over to sweep her up
and whirl her around. “I am so happy you are who you are, Cristina, and that you
chose your grandma and me to raise you.”
“I love you too, grandpa,” she said. She wriggled out of his arms and ran
off after a wave on its way back to sea. “But I still want to be raised by giraffes.”