The Beach- June 29, 2015
There is a mason jar of sea shells on my kitchen countertop. Each shell was lovingly plucked from a shore full of treasures. It was hastily rinsed in the waves and placed gritty and glistening in my hands. My daughter and I walked the beach in search of shells each day last week. It was our time.
Every family member that called our rented beach house “home” had their special times. My sister watched her son’s first steps in the ocean. My sister-in-law played with her niece and nephew and then got lost in the mystery novels she loves. My mom got all her kids around a table to eat together before late nights of loud board games.
We took five more minutes on the beach. We hugged a second or two longer. We ate another cookie. We had another beer. It was vacation. The best part about this trip was how full my heart felt the whole time.
They won’t remember, but I will. I will remember their kisses sticky from ice cream and their hair salty from the sea. They will roll their eyes when I remind them I hosed off their sandy, bare little tushes on the walkway in the open air. I will remember watching my 1 1/2 year-old son nod off in his high chair at lunch because he was so exhausted from the sun and pushing his trucks through the sand. I will remember the first time she flew a kite. I will never forget how he chased seagulls, laughing loud and leaving a trail of the tiniest footprints on the beach.
We are back, but the memories remain in our subtle tan lines and locked away in mason jars to stay in our kitchen until next summer.