Don't you love walking on a beach when a receding wave splashes some foam bubbles over your feet? I love it. The walking. The bubbles. And the dissent of the returning wave. Foams, the left-over, begin breaking their mysteries over my feet. It is an embrace of delicacy. The flowering of spilled water with its chilly spell. A delight thrills me. I wanted to laugh heartily for the feel I have over my feet. But I have grown old, not to laugh aloud for any such trivial thrills. Suppressing the feeling, I arrested it in my sealed lips. I heard a joyous voice. I lift edmy eyes. A child came running opposite me laughs mirthful at the feel of the foams covering its feet. It looked at me to share its joy .And I responded offering back a smile.
The child awarded me a brief laughter in rejoinder. This time it went into me. The receiver within me received it. I understood the child called for the child within me. The child understood the child within me; it was an assurance of a pact between both of us to remain as child for some moments.
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