“Do you think Santa will find us?” I ask.
“He always does, Poppa.” She burrows her curls into my shoulder. We laugh.
My daughter dances through surf on Christmas Eve.
I’d asked about snow and snowmen.
Sun and sand, she’d replied. We visit salty seas of South Africa at sunset. Santa sent word of a safari tomorrow. I am content.
“Look, Poppa! A sand dollar!”
I smile, blinking away worries, my sweet girl’s future. My cancer has returned.