Dalia Follows the Snail's Silver Road

Dalia was always in a hurry.

She hurried to get dressed in the morning, and sometimes her socks ended up on the wrong feet. She hurried through breakfast, and sometimes her milk ended up on her chin. She hurried down the stairs, through the hallway, and out into the garden, as if the whole world might disappear if she did not get there first.

"Slow down, little rocket," her father would laugh. But Dalia never did.

One morning after a night of soft rain, the garden was sparkling. Every leaf wore tiny diamonds of water. The air smelled of wet earth and mint. Dalia burst out of the back door, ready to run three laps around the lemon tree, as she did every day.

But on the second step, she stopped.

Something was shining on the stone path. It was a thin, wiggly line, silver and glittery, like someone had drawn on the ground with a pencil made of moonlight.

"Baba!" Dalia shouted. "Come quick! Someone drew a road!"

Her father came out with his cup of coffee. He crouched down beside her and looked. Then he smiled and pointed. "Follow the road to the end," he said, "and you will meet the artist."

Dalia followed the silver line with her eyes. It wound past a flowerpot, around a pebble, and over a fallen leaf. And there, at the very end, was a snail.

It had a round brown shell with a swirl of cream and gold, like a cinnamon bun. Two long feelers waved slowly on top of its head, and two short ones wiggled below. It was moving forward so slowly that Dalia could hardly tell it was moving at all.

"Oh," breathed Dalia. "Hello, snail."

The snail did not say hello. It just kept going, very, very slowly.

Dalia reached out to pick it up. "Let's see how fast you can go," she said. "I'll carry you to the lemon tree, and then we can have a race!"

But her father gently caught her hand. "Wait a moment," he said. "A snail's body is soft and tender. If we pull it, we might hurt it. And snails don't like to be rushed. What if, instead of making the snail go at your speed, you tried going at the snail's speed?"

Dalia frowned. "Snail speed is too slow," she said. "I'll be bored."

"Try it," said her father, and he winked. "Just for a little while."

So Dalia lay down on her tummy on the cool, damp grass beside the path. She put her chin in her hands. And she watched.

At first, it was hard. Her legs wanted to kick. Her fingers wanted to wiggle. She wanted to jump up and run around the lemon tree. But she stayed.

The snail stretched its body forward, smooth and shiny. Its feelers turned this way and that, as if it were reading the air. Dalia noticed that each feeler had a tiny dark dot at the tip.

"Baba," she whispered, "are those its eyes?"

"They are," said her father, who was sitting on the step now. "Snails see with the tips of their feelers."

Dalia giggled. "Imagine if I had eyes on my fingers!"

The snail moved on, and Dalia moved with it, inching forward on her elbows. Because she was so close to the ground and going so slowly, she began to see things she had never seen before.

She saw a ladybug sleeping inside a curled-up leaf, like a tiny red bead in a green bed.

She saw a line of ants carrying crumbs, one after another, like a little parade.

She saw a spider web stretched between two blades of grass, with raindrops strung along it like a necklace.

She saw a tiny new mushroom, no bigger than her fingernail, poking up its pale white head.

"Baba," she said in amazement, "our garden is full of secrets!"

"It always was," said her father softly. "You just had to slow down to see them."

Dalia decided the snail needed a name. She thought about its shell, the color of an apricot. "I will call you Mishmish," she said.

Mishmish crawled past the flowerpot and toward the edge of the path. Suddenly, Dalia heard footsteps. It was her big brother, Fadi, rushing out of the house with his football under his arm. He was heading straight for the path, and he was not looking down.

"Stop!" cried Dalia, jumping up and holding out both her hands. "Fadi, stop! Mishmish is on the path!"

Fadi skidded to a halt just in time. He looked down and saw the snail. "Whoa," he said. "I almost stepped on it."

"That's because you were going too fast," said Dalia, and then she paused, surprised, because those were words she had never said before.

Her father chuckled.

Dalia looked at Mishmish. "The path isn't safe for a snail," she said. "People walk here."

"You could help it," said her father. "Gently."

Dalia picked a big, wide leaf from the mint plant. She laid it flat in front of the snail. Then she waited. She did not push. She did not pull. She simply waited, as patiently as she could.

Slowly, slowly, Mishmish crawled onto the leaf. Its feelers waved as if to say, "Thank you."

Very carefully, Dalia lifted the leaf. She carried it, step by step, to the shady corner of the garden where the ferns grew thick and damp. She set the leaf down beneath a large fern frond. Mishmish slid off into the cool green shade.

"There," whispered Dalia. "Now you are safe. You can go as slowly as you like."

Fadi crouched beside her. "Can I see?"

Dalia showed him the ladybug in the leaf, the ant parade, and the necklace web. Fadi forgot all about his football. The two of them lay side by side on the grass, watching and whispering, for a long, long time.

That afternoon, when Dalia went inside for lunch, she walked. She did not hurry. She noticed the smell of the bread in the oven, and the way the sunlight made stripes on the kitchen floor.

"Well, look at that," said her mother, surprised. "No milk on your chin today."

Dalia smiled. "Today," she said, "I'm going at snail speed."

And every morning after that, before she ran her laps around the lemon tree, Dalia stopped on the second step to look for a silver road.