Free The Yellow Braid by Karen Coccioli

onlookers seeing them
together in such an endearing manner when without notice, she felt
herself being pushed into the surf.
    Giggling, Livia began splashing Caro.
    Caro initiated a counter-attack, when a wave
broke over her, and knocked her down.
    Livia waded to her. Hand-in-hand, they
struggled to get to shore against the battering of consecutive
waves. On dry land, they laughed out loud to see a toddler about
ten yards away wearing Caro’s beached hat, the saturated brim
flopping over his ears.
    “Where are you going?” Caro asked.
    “Get your hat.”
    “In a minute. Let him play with it for a
little while we dry off,” Caro said, content to sit right where she
was, shoulder to shoulder with Livia, their legs stretched out in
front of them.
    Later when they were back under cover of the
cabana, Livia said, “I took out three of your books from the
library. It’s all they had.”
    “Did you read any yet?”
    “ Hard Edges of Love. My aunt told me your husband
died.” Livia’s voice developed in reverence.
    “It’s okay to talk about him.”
    “Did you cry when you wrote the poems about
him?” Livia asked.
    “Not during, but afterward I did when I read
one back to myself that I especially liked.”
    “I bet “Gardening Ways” is one of them. Made
Aunt Nina and me both cry.”
    “I know. He took such pleasure in tending
the garden, especially the roses. Our home had vases of flowers
year round, either home grown or bought. People used to comment
that they were a luxury. They weren’t though. They made us smile
every time we passed them.”
    “Aunt Nina’s favorites are orchids.”
    “Orchids are lovely, and seem the perfect
flower for your aunt.”
    “How so?”
    “They’re sophisticated, if you can imagine
such a thing, with their long graceful stems; and each one is quite
unique. Like your aunt, she’s very talented you know.”
    Livia looked out to sea. “Did she ask you to
talk to me?”
    “Yes, she feels bad how much you hate
modeling for her.” Caro said.
    “Then why does she keep insisting that I do
it?” Livia asked.
    “Because she’s an artist and she can’t help
but appreciate how beautiful you are,” Caro said. “It’s like your
aunt has to split herself in two. Half of her is your aunt who
loves and wants to please you. The other half wants to do what’s
best for her art.”
    “Yeah, I know. Like with each new husband,
my mother says she gets torn between making them happy and making
me happy.”
    “Don’t you think their concern shows how
much they care about you?”
    Livia remained tight-lipped.
    “Otherwise they’d both do what they want and
not give a hoot. Instead, seems to me that they’re trying to find
the balance between doing what they need for themselves as well as
for you. That’s not always easy to achieve.”
    “Maybe.”
    “And you love staying with your aunt and
uncle, don’t you?”
    “My friends at school think that living on
the ocean is pretty cool.”
    “I’d have to agree,” Caro said.
    Just then, Livia stopped and pulled Caro
down with her to inspect a sea snail harboring its eggs in the
water-packed sand. “Poor things,” Livia said. “She laid them when
the tide was in and now she’s stuck.”
    Gently mounding sand around the snail, Livia
carried it to the water’s edge. On the out-going tide, she let it
go free, watching as the eggs floated away.
    Caro melted inside from her youthful
compassion. In that moment, she pretended that Livia was her
daughter, an extension of her, created by her in the same way she
created a poem from a place she couldn’t have explained, maybe
couldn’t even claim as her own, so little did she understand her
own soul. And just as with a poem—which appeared mysteriously, and
sometimes beautifully, sometimes darkly, fully formed—the thought
of mothering Livia both frightened and exhilarated Caro.
     
    ***
     
    Nina placed a small box in front of Livia, a
present from her mom.
    “Where is she?”