For someone with no formal belief in any sort of organized anything, without real faith in anything except the power of a Diet Coke first thing in the morning, I certainly see a lot of signs.

Signs of what, I don’t know. Maybe by definition, that means they’re not signs at all. You tell me. I will recall the latest — including my reaction, for the purposes of being completely honest.

Probably it’s just the latest sign that I’m an asshole.

The second or third night of our beach vacation, a few of us loitered on the walk back from dinner to the hotel. Annabelle had gone to Sea World with my sister and her family; my parents were already on the couch. My dear friend Trish and her son Zach, who is 16, were in town and we’d eaten together. Trish had Sophie on her hip as we headed back.

Funny, I hadn’t noticed how much shabbier than chic the little strip of retail on La Jolla’s north shore has become over the years we’ve been staying there — the ancient surf shops, the coffee joint that changes owners every two or three years, the grungy market. I love it all, even the tiny nail salon too dirty looking to dream of stepping foot in. Except it was gone this year, replaced by a gleaming, colorful, weigh-your-own frozen yogurt shop — the kind that are popping up all over Phoenix. Sophie’s favorite.

We stopped for chocolate with no toppings for her and a little something for everyone else, ate it there, and started back to the room in the dark. The sidewalk is narrow a block from the beach, sandy and slippery and people scoot around a party as slow as ours. We didn’t notice; Sophie was loudly singing her ABCs — doing a fine job, I thought, til a middle-aged woman passed us and called out, “Hey, she missed the H!” I responded, “At least it wasn’t the P!” (Sorry, old joke.)

Really, a trivial moment if ever there was one.

Immediately after, from the pitch black, a figure emerged. At first, all I could see was that the person was rather big, wearing all white — white shirt, white shorts, white shoes — and bounding toward us. Galloping, sort of. It was a girl, I could finally tell, with a dark brown pageboy and, I realized, features not unlike Sophie’s. 

We stopped to let the girl pass us; she was gone as quickly as she’d appeared.

If I’d been with anyone else, I’m not sure I would have said a word. But it was Trish. We have a lot of history – most recently, two months ago, at the girls’ dance recital, when right before the show was to begin, we had an encounter with another person with Down syndrome.  

I don’t think Zach and Sophie noticed a thing. But Trish and I stood there, staring first after the girl, then at each other. And we did the mature thing. We burst out laughing. To be fair, Trish had had two beers and I’d had some kind of vodka lemonade thing, but still. One of us even wet her pants, but I’m not saying who.

Zach demanded an explanation as to why we were laughing. Trish tried. She said it was the look on my face when the girl ran by. But there was no way to explain it. Definitely not to a 16-year-old boy, who looked increasingly disgusted with us.

And perhaps not to you, either. Or maybe you get it. I still can’t explain why I laughed, except to say I was uncomfortable, and also saying to Trish, “SEE? SEE? IT KEEPS HAPPENING.” 

Was the figure in white another ghost of my future? Or am I looking for signs where there are only young girls, chasing after their own families — or maybe even their dreams.

Or maybe she was just on her way to get some frozen yogurt.