"Can I drive the golf cart?" my three year old granddaughter asked ecstatic. I pulled over on the soft, sand path and put the maroon vehicle in park.
"Sure," I answered, smiling. I patted on my lap in an effort to signal her to hop onto it. My wife gave me a disapproving look. I ignored it. I adjusted Isabel on my lap and put my hands on the wheel above hers.
It was moments like these that kept me motivated.
We continued our drive around the large neighborhood. It was July, and the sun shone through the light green leaves that hung above us like drapery. I gave the cart more gas as Isabel squealed in delight. Beth, my wife, clung onto the side handle. She was a little more frightened of my enjoyments, which had developed over the ages. I can understand. At 45 years old, she shouldn't have to be acting like a mother all over again.
"Steve, please slow down," she muttered as she held on for dear life. I let out a careless laugh and let my foot ease on the pedal. She relaxed.
We pulled into the pool parking lot. Isabel wanted to go to the playground in the front, but my body was tired.
"How about next time, Is," I said, pointing to the pool entrance. "Maybe your friend is in there." She smiled and raced to the entrance.
Here I am sitting eating the same as usual, Cheerios. Honey Cheerios, of course. It was currently 5:30 in the morning. Soon I would have to wake Isabel for high school. Her first year as a sophomore.
I finish up as much as I can of the crossword section. I've noticed these past few years I've completed less and less, but I don't care. At least I still do it.
My alarm buzzes to remind me to wake Isabel. I push myself up, wincing in pain as my stomach cringes. I quickly erase my pain and head upstairs.
"Good morning, Isabel. Time to get up for school," I say, reaching for the light switch. She moans and pulls the covers over her eyes. "First day of your sophomore year!" I say enthusiastically. She groans again and sits up. I head downstairs. She'll come down soon. I take a seat on my favorite brown recliner in front of the television. Some newscaster is talking about sports.
"I'm scared. What if I'm the only person who's never played before?" Isabel asks, her eyes darting from the field to me. I grab her new bag out of the trunk and shut it with a thud.
"I'm sure you're not the only one. Most of the girls here have never played."
"Really?"
"Yeah," I respond. I hand her the bag and she struggles to get her arms in the straps. "Here, let me help you," I say, reaching over to fix the one strap.
"No, I'm okay," Isabel says. I smile. She really has become an independent little girl. She hugs me and runs over to the rest of the third graders, and some others. I start walking over, but have to slow my pace when my legs start to tighten. Stupid legs. I choose to sit on the tailgate for a minute and watch.
