She has an entire shoebox full of clothes, and over a dozen pair of tiny shoes, but Polly was still not sure what to pack. Ever since she learned of the trip to the beach she’d been fretting. One might think being small enough to fit in a 6-year old’s palm was a good thing. Surely choices were simple. But Polly was rarely at ease. Small things are easy to lose.
Being tiny did mean that Polly enjoyed many adventures. She’d seen wondrous sights from her perch on the dashboard of the minivan. She’d peeked out of pockets at the stars overhead and marveled over valleys of painted rock. But she longed to be more than an observer. She wanted to be a doer.
The beach was hot. Not surprising, of course, but concerning to a tiny Polly made of plastic. She was relieved somewhat that they stayed near the waterline. She wondered if the creatures beyond the frothy waves were as large as the fish in the bowl at home where she once dove for treasure. She dreamed sometimes of being a tiny mermaid with pearly scales that matched her favorite pink shoes.
There was no time for fear when the tide slipped under Polly that day. One second, she was enjoying the breeze, and the next she was floating on sucking salt water, pulled into the foam. Grasping hands splashed and dug at the sand, and shrieks of dismay were muffled by the surf. Polly was on her way to a new adventure where the size of her feet and the breadth of her wardrobe no longer mattered. Perhaps one day she would reach the island of plastic in the middle of the Pacific Ocean – she’d always wanted to go there.