This is a day that matters.

He was right to leave the dog home so we could ride our bikes to the river. It was an easy jaunt, just two miles in and two miles out. A short steep-ish walk down to the river side, which was rocky but completely deserted. We balanced carefully on the stones, trying to step only on the wide, flat ones, but missed sometimes and braced delicate insteps on pointed, angled rocks, wincing the whole way.

The current was thicker, faster here and we walked carefully in - careful of those rocks - and Madeleine wanted to surrender to the current, to let it carry her wherever it wanted to. Wayland held on tight for a bit, then just let her go, keeping close by.

Violet, always a bit slower, more careful, found a spot in the middle of the river and sat, pulling small rocks from the bed and placing them on a large one jutting out of the water. "It's a rock family," she said, placing another "baby" down. "These are the babies, and this is their mama."

Saying "family" like this: fan-uh-wee.

I sat with her, collecting stones of my own, while Wayland and Mad traversed up and then down the river a stretch. They found treasure: a collection of golf balls (21!) washed up on an inset of the river, and a tan and black moth, with surprising hints of orange on the inside of its wings.

We saw a crawdad scuttling from underneath a rock in the river and a millipede-looking creature crawling across the stones. Tiny minnows nipped around our ankles.

It was late afternoon and the sun made light dance on the water. We heard nothing but the rush of water and the call of birds and a little bit of wind clapping against the leaves.

This is a day that matters, like a reset button, a centering force to stick a pin in, so that the rest of your days can revolve around it, focus on it, come back to it. Because these are the things that matter: the careful steps, the sun and the water, the silence and the unexpected treasure, the absolute joy, and of course, the fan-uh-wee.

I belong among the weeds.

This song feels like our frequent walks down to the river, the trails thick with weeds, the heat beating down. It even feels like scratching the bug bite on my forearm, dotted with calamine lotion. These are happy things. Yes, even bug bites in a weird way.

The first time you saw the ocean.

The first time you saw the ocean, you ran to it full tilt like you'd been waiting to do such a thing all your few short years of life so far. It was instant understanding that the huge body of water in front of you was for you, for your own joy, for love of life. And you seized it, your face so full of joy.

It was evening; the light was soft and warm around you and the small waves at the shore swallowed you up to your ankles, and you laughed. Instinct commanded you to jump the waves and you did, venturing a little deeper each time.

No, wait, stop, I almost said. I felt the words rise up in my throat but I stopped them because you weren't going to go too far. I could see that. You'd lunge in and then pull back, just a little when the waves got a little too high, up to your thighs.

I joined you. "Do you want to go deeper?" I asked and you nodded. You really did want to go deeper, but there was something else there, a tinge of fear, of trepidation in your deep brown eyes. "We don't have to," I told you gently, "But I think you will like it."

So you nodded and I picked you up and carried you so that our heads were level and the water was as high as my chest. You could see the shore, but it seemed so far away, and facing out into the wide expanse of green-gray water all you could see was water. It was so close to infinite, this feeling, the perfect feeling of being a small thing contained in something so much larger. I wondered if daughters feel a similar feeling wrapped up in their mother's arms. Tucked safe inside an infinite presence.

We jumped the waves, you and I, rose with the crests and fell with the white caps. We felt the water tug and pull at our bodies and it made us feel anchored, rooted in the sand even as it pulled us a little further out each time. The first swells surprised you and you were afraid, clutching me tightly, a solemn look on your face. Then you relaxed and enjoyed though the fear never really quite left your face.

When I thought it was time to go you swore it wasn't, and in the vast expanse of the ocean, feeling fear and joy in tenuous coexistence and hopefully, comfort and safety, too, you never wanted to go. You wanted to stay in this place forever, and I thought yes. Yes, let's stay in this place forever.

But there were things calling us to the shore -- there is always something, of course -- so I carried you back to dry sand, dragging my legs through the water until I overcame the pull of the ocean, or simply left it behind. But that's an impossible task. Even as evening descended and we walked back to the hotel, we could feel the ghost of waves lapping at our bodies.