Yesterday was a beach day, the whole crew trussed up in sand and salt water. Us older one caught and lost waves on our boogey boards, tossed in the foam and barely able to catch our breaths. And then it would calm to nothing and we'd float, marveling at the beauty of the sea. The kids darted back and forth from the shallows to the tide pools, catching crabs in their red and yellow buckets. Hand in hand my parents made their way down the shoreline, a stolen moment, twenty five years of kept promises between them.
Anthony did not have any of it. The water, the sand. He wept and pulled himself into my shoulder, tired and weary from cruel attempts to show him how lovely the beach can be. He doesn't believe me, even now. His toddler eyes are bleary against the shimmer of light on the water, prepared for the imminent betrayal of my parental promise and prepping for soggy feet.
When he grows up I hope to see him in the churn of white, racing me to the shore. When he grows up I hope he forgives the salty tears and sandy feet as I tried to draw him into the blue. When he grows up I hope he remembers days like this, with the sun overheard and the air filled with laughter, of family, of fellowship, of the sea.