The Curse of Imagination

We went on a great hike today - along the Blue River (we think) to the shores of Lake Dillon. We tossed sticks and stones in the river, pretended to be bears, and enjoyed a picnic lunch while watching fly fishermen toil. (In our many trips to the lake, we have seen plenty of fishermen, but not a single fish. Huh.)
 
We have been blessed with heavy afternoon rains for the past couple of days, so the river was running cold, high, and fast. None of us were foolhardy enough for any serious wading, but it was fun to toss sticks in and watch them ride the current (Xtreme Pooh Sticks, as it were). Wrig would put her toes right at the edge of the bank, balancing precariously while holding a huge stick above her head, then lurch her entire body weight forward to throw. All I could picture was her losing her balance, tumbling into the cold water, and racing downstream, bouncing off rocks while wailing for help.
 
My imagination is often filled with pictures like this. In each and every one - the falling from great heights movie, the being taken by a stranger movie - I am forced to try to visualize my own reaction: what would I do to help? What am I ready/able to do to protect my daughter? The answer is always the same: not much. I hate those damn movies.
 
I know, I know. The imagination is also responsible for the other movies. The ones where she graduates college and wins athletic events and finds a boyfriend whose knuckles don't scrape the ground. But today, while watching clear water tumble over sharp rock, it wasn't the wind that gave me the shivers.