Royalty

"I gave birth to a princess," her mother once told me, and I thought of my son pouring his Grape-Nuts in the garage so as not to wake her, of the moment her baby, seeing her now a separate entity, seemed not to breathe, refused to blink her sapphire eyes. I remembered again last night as she and I crossed a Florida street, the caution light running gold streamers over the dark sweep of her hair, when a young man coming toward us halted midway a moment, stunned, before moving on. So what is this Divine Right—less than bloodlines, or more? More than symmetry of face or a silver necklace nestled at a flawless throat, the nerve to send back bad food in restaurants, more than the big, loopy handwriting of the generous spirit? Call it bravery, that eager readiness in the eyes, the quality of the light shining there. Call it blessed assurance. Today, pony-tailed, she luxuriates in sun, opulent in a hot pink bikini. In deference the ocean leans away, a backdrop. I find myself bent, studying the shore for perfect shells to lay at her feet—cat's paw, prickly cockle, angel wing. Call it homage, more or less.