Gas Money

I'm an emotional wreck.

Maybe.

I like to be dramatic.

This past weekend was lovely- a long, much needed weekend away to the beach where my husband can surf and I can bask in the sunshine with girlfriends.  Perfection.

Every Memorial day is this bittersweet.  Warm, long, and the 30th marks what would have been dad's birthday.  So as I bask in that warm sunshine, I think of him.  My laugh is a little quieter, but still genuine.

And this past weekend was extra bittersweet because my niece paid tribute to dad with the same tattoo he had- an eagle.  The eagle that was always free and flying on his shoulder and bore a great symbolism to his life.  Now, at 18, my niece wears that same tattoo.

We have been begging her to reconsider a tattoo for years.  And just like when she decided to become a vegetarian at age 9, she decided on this tattoo by age 10 and no one could dissuade her.  She marches to the beat of her own petite drum.  She is stronger than I was at 18, and if I didn't love her more than anything on the planet, I might be jealous of her cool unassuming confidence.

She is quiet until you get to know her, and then she is just about the funniest little thing ever.  She was certified to teach advanced yoga by the time she was 16, and this makes her so extra cool. Way cool. 

While I was contemplating life's greatest plans at age 18 and calculating every step I took, she lives in the present moment and, again, it is almost enviable.

And yet, all I can see when I think of her, this person I hold close to my heart, is the 4 year old Ariel.  Cute, bossy, a mind of her own.

And sweet.

And as I quietly celebrate my father's birthdate in my heart, each year I celebrate my close friend, Sarah's birthday as well, as they share the wonderful date.

Sarah always asks about Ariel, and we never tire of the gas money story.

Many moons ago Sarah and I played on the same spring select soccer team.  We were 16 years old and Ariel was about 4. 

Sarah came to pick me up in her dad's Buick (great times in that Buick, eh, Sar?).

Ariel, ever the gentle person thinking of others, ran out to the car as I slide into the passenger seat.  I was, of course, slightly annoyed.

And she tumbled out of the house running as fast as her small legs could take her,  she bounded for the driver's side, her palms open.

"Wait!Wait!", she called to Sarah.

And as she drew closer we saw her hands, full of pennies from her piggy bank and said,

"This is gas money for Cambria."

To say it was sweet would  be an understatement.  To say, "That is Ariel" would be a better fit.

She gives more than she receives.  Always.  And it is she that teaches me the most about humanity, persistence, and speaking your mind when you believe in something.

I am thankful for her in my life. I am thankful for her gas money.