The circle of smaller children
around Isaac’s poised hand
draws itself in like a breath
as he splashes bubble solution
onto the top of the concrete block.
I scurry across the grass, ready
with a standard scolding
about waste, but stop short
when I see him crouch,
dip the hot pink wand
in the pooled solution,
and with his face hovering
just above the wet surface, blow
a lateral bubble whose edges
join themselves to the cement.
He fills it with slow, careful breath
until it expands to the size of half
a cantaloupe. Then he pushes
back onto his knees, and together
with the group, watches color
swirl and pulse and shift
from turquoise to fuchsia
to tangerine and electric yellow,
from purple to sapphire blue,
until Dymon, the girl named
for the hardest substance
in the world, smacks her hand
down flat and the bubble shreds,
its ragged edges rising and falling
like the gasp of a crowd.
I tense again, prepare
for Isaac’s protest or tears,
maybe a fist flung in retaliation.
But instead, he laughs,
a laughter that says, Man,
isn’t that the truth? then resumes,
blowing a series of new bubbles,
sometimes going for big,
sometimes for the shapes
of ladybugs or flowers,
or burgeoning clusters.
And Dymon, of course,
always going for broke.
I watch off to one side
until the bell breaks
the circle, scattering
the children over the blacktop.
They call, Bye, Isaac, bye!
and then they’re at the walkway
again, where they all step back
in line. I bring up the rear,
a little humbled, thinking
beautiful, breakable, thinking
Yeah, isn’t that the truth?