A Sunny Sunday Afternoon On the Beach

At the estuary beach Isabella plays in the sand with sticks and stones and plastic bottles.  We are her children.  She's the boss.  The tide is rising to it's highest point - throwing itself at our feet and leaving broken reeds and prickly pear plants that have broken away, upstream.  Roaring water, glittering and waveful, smashing powdery fountains which hang above the rocks for an instant.  All is white gold in the afternoon sun.
Mother, daughter, grand daughter, we work seamlessly together, pulling up leggings, dusting toes, slipping on the socks, knocking sand out of her shoes.  She's ready to climb the steps up from the beach.  Count them, climb the hand rail.  Sing all the new songs she's learnt (in Portuguese), or has she made them up?  I listen (a cousin got married, went to the church, drank beer) Strange, but it rhymes in Portuguese.
Then there's the ice cream.  The gelateria is crowded.  She chooses ice blue ice cream.  Her lips are red and blue, like fat healthy little worms!  We share our flavours.
She sings nearly all the way home, until suddenly, she's asleep, her eyelashes like little black fans on her rosy cheeks.