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bub-ble (bub/-l) n. a hollow globe of water or other liquid blown out with air or gas

It's no wonder my granddaughter loves bubbles so much. Imagine building a hollow globe of liquid soap, and then releasing it into a beautiful summer day to dance but for a few moments on the whispering edges of a warm, sunny breeze. To wonder at its rainbow reflection on a surface so thin and fragile that it's viewed only for a brief moment.

Oh sure, there's the occasional bubble that lives far beyond expectations. The one that floats past the tree over the fence into the neighbor's yard, then it's slammed by a rogue breeze into a blue flannel shirt on old lady Griffins' clothesline. You hail it as new World Record holder as you dance with triumph.

This small miracle I have come to take for granted is not lost on her. She dances and laughs with each and every one. Each new bubble is a new friend. Each new bubble has a different character.

Some bubbles are fat and heavy and sit down quick. "They don't like to dance," she giggles. "They lose their breath too quick!"

Some bubbles pop as soon as they're given the breath of life. "Boomers," she calls them.

Most bubbles linger for a while, dance a bit, blend in with the others and then they're gone - kind of like most our lives.

But a few bubbles become legends, set to song. She runs into the house and in a sing-song high-pitched soliloquy (some parts only audible to the dog), breathlessly recounts their plight. She starts each story, and here I'm not 100 percent sure but the dog thinks so, with "Guess what?" Then dancing from one foot to the other, she acts out the story of "Floaty the Runaway Bubble."

"I blowed softly for like a real long time." Pant, pant puff (she always talks like she's just finished the 100-yard dash). "And then, and then I thought it was going to explode. But it didn't! It started to go up, and then it went down! And then almost clunked me on the head! And then it just flew over me!" Pant, puff, pant, pant, puff. "Then it almost landed in Charlotte's pool! Then Scratchy chased it and almost caught it, but then it went up (it's here you should try to imagine some sort of ballet move that looks like it might hurt because she's in that position) and just missed Daddy's basketball hoop, and then, guess what?" (By this time the dog's howling). "It popped. It just popped and disappeared!"

I watched as my granddaughter danced her story - a story that couldn't be accurately told without interpretive arm and leg movements. Her constantly moving limbs match her hazel brown eyes that move to even the slightest distraction as she pirouettes around the room. Her black bubble-stained T-shirt could easily be confused for a young girl who managed to flee the clutches of an octopus attack. And her dirty sticky bare feet speak of bubbles that didn't get away.

And then, as quickly as her story started, guess what? She's gone! Some invisible rope tied around her waist had yanked her back outside. Slam goes the screen door. "Watch out! Oooh, oooh get up there! Move over! Higher!" sings my granddaughter from the back porch as she directs another batch of newly found friends.

I sit back in my leather recliner and half-heartedly turn my attention back to my wide-screen TV, all 105 channels of it, all available for my personal pleasure 24 hours a day, seven days a week in high definition. And I sit there, envious of the total love my granddaughter has for a sphere that in its simplest form is made from liquid.

Why can't I love something that much? Oh I love my kids, most of them. And my grandchildren, all of them. But why can't I obtain the simplest form of pleasure the way she does?

Is it because with age we can't have love without desire? If I were going to blow a bubble I would think about making it bigger than my granddaughter did to impress her. It would have to go higher and farther and last longer. The desire to blow a better bubble has made it a competition, but only to you, not the child. She still celebrates every bubble.

Or has our understanding of love changed with time? We love our spouses. We look across at them in all their ready-for-bed glory and remember a time not so long ago. Then we go look in the mirror and thank them for staying on. We still love them, but some of the shine is gone.

It's sad to think I'll never love something ever again as simple and purely as my granddaughter loves those bubbles.

That kind of innocent love is rewarded to the very young. Remember to celebrate it with them. Color, blow bubbles, take walks, watch cartoons.

That love she has for bubbles is only one tenth of the love she has for you.

- Bob Niles

Bob Niles, who answers to Robert, Bobby, Dad, Grandpa, Unit No.2 (his Dad could never remember all the children's names) honey and super hero, is new to writing but not to storytelling. "I like to make people laugh and to think, with a secret desire make them dance and send me untraceable $100 bills in the mail," says the happily married, retired father and grandpa from Richmond in British Columbia, Canada.