I remember I first tasted your toes three years ago. Your dad held you as I lapped salty licks at your kicking feet.
I met you again, later, on your family’s boat. Your toes had grown longer, bendier. You bounced at my waves, squealed when I splashed up to lick your face and your fat, pink vest. You threw crackers that gulls dove to steal from my belly.
I scared and delighted you.
You and your parents come back. You’re bigger, with toes that can support your weight without wobbling. Almost.
“Uh oh, we should have tried this vest on earlier. It’s too small.”
“Just grab an orange one for today. We’ll get a new one this week.”
“Not a perfect fit, but close enough.”
I see your small mouth clamp over white bread stuffed with marshmallow fluff and peanut butter as your parents munch on my shrimp and I waltz with the boat.
I feel my choppier waves ahead of you, choppier than they look. A break in our smooth waltz. Your mother’s hand rests on your orange shoulder while her other grips a glass bottle, a relaxed smile settled on her lips. She reaches down to plant a kiss on you the moment before I wrench the boat, our waltz now an aggressive tango.
Her hand gropes air.
You fall.
Your vest floats up as you slip out and I yank you down. I lick the marshmallow crusted on the corner of your lips. I try to leave your mother’s kiss on your cheek, but I lick that away, too. You kick with a ferocity I don’t feel and open your mouth in a scream I don’t hear. It just makes room for more of me.
I remember first tasting your toes.
Today, I taste your lungs.
