Author: Renae Wiegand

About ten days into June, we’re still very much in the June gloom period. Before that, it was May gray all the way. If feels like we haven’t had a sunny day in months. It feels like Seattle. I’ve noticed I’ve been needing more coffee to get through the days. I don’t want to write about the weather, but this has been an unusual year, starting with a colder and wetter winter. I don’t think we’ve had a day above 80 yet!

Every year I look forward to getting back to the beach, lying on beach and soaking up the sun. I spend the colder months taking walks on the sand, searching for shells. I found some pretty cool ones this winter. But I wait for the sunshine and the warmth to haul my beach gear from the trunk of my car, across two parking lots and down a steep staircase, to search for my own piece of sandy real estate. That’s when I spread out my towel, set up my chair and umbrella, and break out my latest beach read. It soothes my soul just thinking about it.

Not this year. Not yet. Every time I’m by the beach, I look at all the tourists and think how disappointing it must be to have booked a trip to sunny California just to sit on the beach in a hoodie, and wrapped in blankets. Now that I think about it, the tourists are out there in their bathing suits, lying on their blankets, making the most of it. Their kids stand at the edge of the water, jumping over the waves as they roll in, laughing. The locals are the ones in their hoodies, cursing under their breath because a cloudy 65 degrees is just cold!

I shouldn’t complain. It’s not stormy. It’s not pouring rain, or hailing baseballs. The weather is calm, breezy at times, cloudy and cool. While walking on the beach earlier, I saw a group setting up for a beach wedding. They had low tables and pillows for the guest seating. I’m sure when the plan was made, they were hoping for a warm, sunny day, and they’ll be lucky if they get a few rays of sunlight breaking through the clouds. That’s how it goes though, this time of year. I know we’ll see those perfect beach days this summer. Or should I say, I hope we’ll see those perfect beach days.

The next morning, Thursday, we were on the road by 5:30. My alarm startled me, after the few hours I was able to sleep. I did not even mention the screams from the adjacent room until we were getting back on the highway. We only stopped at Starbucks so I could have a latte. We didn’t stop again until Tucumcari for breakfast, at Kix on Route 66. Yes, that’s exactly why I picked it.

In Texas, the landscape flattened and everything turned green. We had a brief stop at the Harley dealership in Amarillo, and then another somewhere in Oklahoma. I wasn’t working on this day, and stared at the green fields and and small towns across the two states. We turned north in Oklahoma City. This was the final stretch, with about three hours to go. The would be the longest three hours. We stopped in Kansas once we hit the turnpike, somewhere after Wellington. Rob was getting tired. We needed gas. I looked around. There has been so much rain. The green land stretched as far as you could see.

Things began to look familiar, and different. I couldn’t get over the lush landscape surrounding us. I remembered springs in Wichita, but we’d lived in Southern California long enough that I’d forgotten how lush things could be, and it beautiful, against the backdrop of the gray skies. There was a slow moving storm front just to the east.

We arrived around 6:30 that evening, pulling into my sister’s driveway to a small welcoming crew. Both my sisters were there, and brother in law. We had plans to take Rob’s daughter to dinner, and had little time for talking. It felt strange to me because we were only there for about an hour before rushing off to our next stop.

Our dinner with Rob’s daughter was more casual than he wanted. He offered to take her anywhere to celebrate her graduation. She decided on some new restaurant, part of a chain, on the east side of town. The food was fine, the restaurant loud. Masks were optional, which was strange. Conversation was easy, but light. There were still certain subjects that would remain untouched. We reminded her she was always welcome to come stay with us in San Diego. She mentioned she was going to Disney World for a week for her graduation present. After dinner, we dropped her off and headed back to my sister’s house. All I wanted was a good night’s sleep.

The next morning was warm and somewhat humid as I enjoyed my coffee on the deck. We had plans for breakfast, the day open, and then graduation at Koch Arena at 7:00. It’s always been a challenge to plan to meet my family anywhere at a specific time. We planned 9:00 at some new restaurant in the old Naftzger Park. It took awhile for everyone to show up and we ended up ordering before my mom got there, but it worked out. We made plans for the day. Rob would go visit the hospital where he used to work and I would run around with my mom, sisters and niece and nephew.

We started a walking tour of the painted doors in downtown, which then ended quickly. We saw some new art, and spent time in some shops before going to the mall. My niece wanted to get her ears pierced, and that ended up being the best place for ear piercing. We checked the tatoo shops first, but they required a birth certificate and a notary. About an hour later, she had the two studs in her ears, and was looking for more earrings to wear once she could remove the starters.

We met up again with Rob at Bella Luna for an early dinner. It was always one of our favorite restaurants and the food was as good as I remembered. We laughed as my niece showed off her southern accent. She was hilarious. We headed back to change, and then drove across town to Koch Arena. There we so many cars in the parking lot, and masks were required to enter. I did remove my mask once we found seats. It wasn’t me trying to be a rebel, but I had developed a mask rash and was trying to leave it off as much as possible.

The ceremony fit neatly into two hours. Rob’s daughter was one of the last to enter the arena, and would be one of the last to walk across the stage. I watched, remembering how excited I had been all those years ago, so young and full of hope and promise. I wondered if kids still felt that excitement. As she walked across the stage, we yelled and I heard others yelling. Then it was over. We left shortly after that. Rob got to see his daughter walk across the stage. On the way back to the west side, we stopped for a celebratory beer and toasted her accomplishment.

We had an early breakfast date with my parents the next morning. I hadn’t seen my dad yet, since he had been working. We met them at Doo-Dah Diner downtown. This was another place we enjoyed before moving. Breakfast came with an order of monkey bread for the table, which was sticky and sweet and buttery and amazing. We caught up on all the usual things and laughed a lot. They had errands to run an food to prepare for our dinner later in the day.

We left and drove around in the rain. We drove by old places that remained unchanged. We stopped at new places, where the city had changed or improved. We ended up at my sister’s later that afternoon. We were having the family over and they were grilling brats and burgers. It’s always great to see family, spend time telling stories, remembering old times and old ways. This was to be a whirlwind trip, and I was tired from the moment we arrived. As we sat around tables we talked and laughed, the knowledge of having to leave early the next day weighing heavier and heavier.

When we planned the trip to Wichita, it had to be a road trip. We had done it a couple times before and it’s a nice drive. We didn’t think we’d be able to board our dog because she was old and having health issues. We didn’t know if her little heart could take a six-night stay at the pet resort. By the time we knew she wouldn’t be going, we were already committed.

I talked Rob into making a stop at the Grand Canyon. He had never seen it. I had seen it once from a plane at 30,000 feet, but I wanted to stand at the edge of this marvel and gaze in wonder. It wouldn’t be too far out of the way if we took the 15 through Riverside County and caught 40 East at Barstow. With Rob driving, I didn’t worry about making up the time.

We left early on that Wednesday morning. The goal was 4 AM and we were on the road by 4:15. It was still dark and too early for me to start my work day. I was working because I had fewer vacation days than I needed. I was surprised by the amount of traffic on the freeways at that hour. We slipped through Riverside and San Bernardino as the sun came up, a beautiful sunrise over the mountains. We climbed into the high desert, hit Barstow and turned east. Somewhere along the stretch of desert highway, we paid over six dollars a gallon for gas, at Oasis. The bathrooms in this little stop were brand new and so clean. They even sold Route 66 souvenirs.

We drove along, a quick stop along the way for fast food breakfast sandwiches and iced coffees. The landscape began to change into forests and trees. At Williams, we headed north toward Grand Canyon National Park. I was getting excited. The line at the park entrance wasn’t too long. We paid our fee, got our maps and headed inside. We found parking easier than we found a bathroom. Then we took the short walk to the viewing area. We walked up the sidewalk, turned the corner, and there it was. The Grand Canyon, in all of its glory was directly in front of me. I moved to the edge, to take it in, to look around, look down, look across. It was breathtaking. It was truly magnificent. I could not capture the whole of it in any photo I took on my phone. I could not capture the large-ness, the greatness, the essence. I gazed in awe, marveled at the wonder. Thought it was strange that the top edge was so flat. It was this gaping hole in the ground, carved by a river, over the course of time.

We probably stayed 45 minutes. There was plenty to do, trails to walk and information to read. We had to be in Wichita on Thursday evening and had a reservation in Albuqueque that night. There was no more time dawdling. We stopped at a gift shop before heading to Flagstaff. I was excited to find a Smokey the Bear shirt. Rob got a patch and a window decal.

On the way down to Flagstaff, a single mountain loomed in the distance, still capped in snow in mid-May. Humphreys Peak, I think. It seemed out of place to me, black, rocky, and alone. In Flagstaff we had lunch at some diner that had a train running on a track in the dining room. It was quiet, everyone still wearing masks. The waitress said they had good fries, and they did. I had a meeting and had to run to to car to get dialed in. We picked up 40 again, eastbound, around 3:30.

It was getting dark as we approached Albuquerque. What I remember is how the city seemed to be nestled between mountains. You climb in elevation, unable to see signs of life, then suddenly, the city opens up. There are lights as far as you can see. We found the motel and checked in. We went back out to grab some food because the wait times were long for delivery. Back at the motel we ate our burgers, then settled in for the night. I drifted off to sleep to the sound of whatever was on TV.

I woke to the sound of screaming at what I later realized was 10:57. Someone in an adjacent room was screaming something like, “It is not dead” or “I am not dead,” over and over and over. I was paralyzed, my heart pounding, afraid to move. Just awake, I couldn’t comprehend what was happening, what I was hearing. I didn’t know if this was some domestic dispute or if something was in someone’s room. The screaming stopped and I waited for anything to happen. There was silence. Rob slept soundly next to me. I was afraid to close my eyes.

It’s been a few weeks since we had to say goodbye to Daisy, our Boston Terrier. It was sooner than we wanted or expected. This little one always lived at full speed. At one of her checkups when she was twelve, the vet commented on her having the energy of a puppy. She was silly that way. It was heartbreaking to watch her slow down so quickly.

All those years ago, back in Wichita, Rob wanted me to go with him to look at puppy. She was the last left in her litter. She was so little. She had those round eyes that melted you. Rob picked her up the next day. She was trouble from the beginning, but you’d forget when she put her head down and looked at you. She was so energetic and playful and curious. Our shih tzu wasn’t sure what to think of this little one. She was the little sister she didn’t really want.

She got into everything and she chewed everything. She chewed her toys, Rob’s shoes, legs on the furniture, books on the coffee table, plaster on the walls. She was something else. It was like she looked for ways to get attention. Our other dog didn’t want to play as much as Daisy wanted to play. She had so much energy. It took five or six years before she began to settle down. With all that energy came the biggest heart. She was the sweetest girl and always gentle with kids.

When Daisy was just over a year old, we added a cat to our family. I thought it would be nice for Daisy to have a playmate. She took to him immediately. They were like Garfield and Odie. The cat liked to stretch out across the back of the loveseat. Daisy would see him all stretched out and comfortable, and jump up to get his attention. It was like she was on a trampoline. Each time she jumped, he swatted her. They did this all the time. It was their little game. I remember laughing at them, watching her jump up and him swatting her, again and again and again.

She was seven when we moved to san Diego. That’s when I started working from home. Both dogs would spend their days with me in my office. Each had a bed near my desk. When I finished my work day, we would hang out in the back yard, enjoying the sun. She loved lying in the sun. I had to watch her because she could easily get too hot.

Rob and I took her to the beach one day. She wasn’t impressed. She didn’t care for the water and ran away as the waves rushed in. I don’t think she cared for the sand either. She was a little prissy and didn’t want it on her feet. She wasn’t a beach dog.

After our shih tzu died, Daisy and I bonded more. I think she missed her and sensed how much I missed her. She continued to spend days with me in my office. We started to let her sleep with us at night. She was a fifteen pound dog that could take up half the bed. Somehow I would end up sleeping on the very edge of the bed. And she burrowed. She loved to sleep under blankets. If we couldn’t find her, we knew to check the blankets.

Life is strange and time flies. One moment you have a squirming little puppy looking at you with those happy, bright eyes. The next thing you know, it’s fourteen years later and your old girl looks at you with tired, heavy eyes. The house has become very quiet. The snoring silenced. I miss her silly smile and big round eyes. I miss her snuggled next to me on the couch in the evenings. When I push my chair back from my desk, I look to the place on the floor where she slept in her bed. I miss the sound of puppy steps on the tile floor. I even miss the trips outside at all hours of the night. I miss her.

We recently wrapped up a week of perfectly dreary weather. It was all things I am very happy doing without. The days were gray with highs hovering in the low 60’s. The rain came easy, steady, relentless. It is January and it is the time of year for this soul-stealing rain. It changes people. When you live in a place known for its perfect weather, it implies that it doesn’t rain. Mostly that is true. And when it doesn’t  rain, you get used to it. Sure, it’s dry and plants require extra care and things get dusty, but you get used to it. You adjust. You learn to live differently. You do things outside. You spend time on patios at restaurants, bars, home, work. You cook outside. You leave your windows open all day for the warmth and fresh air. The sun warms your soul, emboldens your spirit. You laugh harder and live louder.

But it does rain, in these winter months when the days are too short, allowing the grayness to sneak in. It changes you. It pours in like fog, coating everything in liquid sadness. It slows the world. In cars, people drive strangely cautious as if the streets have turned to ice. Public places are suddenly empty empty and quiet. People remain at home, safe from the falling gloom. Words are whispered if spoken at all. The world is slightly askew. With rain, roads turn to to rivers, sinkholes open and swallow things whole. The landscape changes. The hills come alive, turn green; lush. Trees are refreshed and appear brighter. The rain, desperately needed, arrives in waves, relentless at first, pounding, wind howling, then slows to a steady flow. It takes days for it to ease, the clouds to roll and pass, and then sunlight breaks. The world cooled, newly energized. We start to go outside again, to soak up rays on warm winter days.

 

Cruising along the freeway this morning, listening to Led Zeppelin, Aerosmith, and The Rolling Stones, there’s an easiness to the day. It’s Friday morning around 10am. There’s no traffic, and the only plan I have is to spend time lying on a beach. It’s  the last day of a much needed week off and I haven’t really done anything at all. I rarely do nothing at all.

Earlier in the morning, when I finally open my eyes to the day and look at the clock, it’s 7:11. I’ve been able to sleep until seven each morning and it’s been so nice. On this morning, knowing this my last day off, I stare at the ceiling for several minutes. I think how I want to go for a run. I think how I want to go to the beach. I think how I’d like to stay in bed. As I’m entertaining the idea, the cat lying next to me stretches his arms, hitting me in the face with a claw. That was short lived.

The morning is cool and running is easy. I have grown to love running outside more than running on a treadmill. There’s something basic about propelling myself forward through the craziness of life all around. I take in the breakfast smells and morning sights as I pound out a few miles. I connect with strangers on the sidewalk as we pass, nodding good morning or hello. I truly feel alive, inspired,  hopeful, believe that anything is possible.

Back on the freeway, top down in my convertible, I’m belting out lyrics to Hotel California. Without a hat, my short hair flies wildly in the wind. It’s a short drive, but long enough to get me to another place. I love my beach time. I’ve perfected my ritual. First, the drive with music blaring to set the tone, to get me thinking. When I get to the beach and find a spot, I lie out for twenty to thirty minutes on each side. Then I walk down to the water, look for shells and feel the waves beat against me as I walk. Refreshed, I sit and read or write or stare into the distance as the waves crash into the sand. Some days, like today, the weather is perfectly warm, the sun bright, breeze cool, and the sand soft and luxurious. I want to slip from my chair and feel the warm sand on my legs and arms and face. I want to sink into its depths and dissolve into nothingness.

On a whim, we went to a Padres game the other night. I’d like to think Rob scored a good deal on the tickets because they were pretty good seats for deciding to go the night before. It was a great night for baseball at Petco Park. It was warm, mostly cloudy with just the slightest breeze. We shared a cheese-steak sandwich with garlic fries even though it was Taco Tuesday. I treated myself to a $12 beer and got Rob a $6 coke with an environmentally friendly straw. We cheered the Padres as they walked all over the Dodgers, winning 4 – 1. We walked around the ballpark, browsed the team store and then rode the trolley home. It was a great night.

Of all the sports, I like going to baseball games the most. It was my dad’s game. We used to watch games at Lawrence Stadium in Wichita a few times a year. Whenever the NBC was in town, we’d get free tickets from the grocery store and all go watch the college kids play. I had no idea who these guys were, but they came from places as far as Alaska. Sometimes we’d go to one of the minor league games – The Wichita Aeros, then The Pilots, The Wranglers, and The Wing Nuts.

I always loved going to the games. We got to stay up late, eat hotdogs, drink cokes and later, eat soft serve ice cream from a miniature ball cap. Sometimes we’d get those malts with the thumb-sized flat, wooden spoons. Those were so good. I remember there was talk of my dad playing baseball when he was a kid. He didn’t get to play in school because of the expense but I heard he was a good. I never asked him about it. I just accepted it as truth and didn’t want to know things any other way. Besides, I saw the way he watched the game.

I had my first job at that stadium, a fourteen year old cooking hotdogs and hamburgers. That was a great summer, my first real step toward independence. I’d ride the bus to work late in the afternoon and call for a ride from my tired mom at 10, 11, or 12 at night. It depended how late the games went or how long it took to clean. I remember the heat of the day forcing its way into the stands, the noise of the crowds, the smell of hotdogs and spilled beer. I remember leaving the concession stand and running up into the stands late in the night, feeling the cool air on my sweaty, greasy face. I remember the quiet of the stadium after the crowds had gone, the peaceful calm after a storm.

When I go to a baseball game I remember all these things. These moments that make me smile or shake my head because I was young and believed the world was mine. Going to a game brings it all back. When I was young, those guys seemed so old. Now, as I sit in the stands and watch, I smile when I think that these guys seem so young. How time flies.

I recently ran my third half marathon, The Rock ‘n Roll half marathon. It’s 13.1 miles, which may or may not seem like a long distance. It takes more than you might think to make it across a finish line. Ask anyone who runs. Sometimes you’re not ready or it’s not meant to be. You have to be dedicated and disciplined. You have to commit. You pick a race and join a group or make out your own plan. You have to commit to the miles. For me, these are early miles, usually around 4:30am on the treadmill at the gym during the week. On the weekend, the long runs are a treat, when I get to run outside. They can also be a challenge, trying to fit them into a busy schedule, when the weather is most favorable. This time around, I thought I’d add an extra challenge by continuing to work my second job on the weekends. It made it harder to fit in on Saturday mornings before a seven or eight-hour shift. But as the year progressed, the days started with earlier sunrises, and that worked itself out. I don’t like to run in the dark.

You have to commit to the pain. For me, there’s always some pain along the way. Mental pain counts but it’s the physical pain that knocks me down. I’ve started training plans that I couldn’t finish because of shin splints or tendonitis or knee or hip problems. Over the years I’ve learned all sorts of stretches and strengthening exercises to prevent the same problems from happening again. Running has taught me lessons I didn’t know I needed. It’s taught me to listen to my body, to push when I’m slightly tired, or rest when I’ve exhausted my reserves. It’s taught me that I’m stronger than I think.

Running is hard. The Rock ‘n Roll half marathon was awesome. It was the largest run I’ve done so far with over 13,000 runners, not counting the marathon runners. There were thirty-three corrals, starting in two minute intervals. The course was crowded from start to finish, runners weaving through the slower masses the entire route.  We started under a cloudless sky, the sun warm and persistent as we progressed through the streets of San Diego.

The crowds were amazing. They lined the streets to watch an endless river of runners course through their neighborhoods. They cheered encouraging words, beat drums, chanted, handed out oranges, bananas, candy, water, tequila, and whiskey. They shouted through bull horns or hands cupped to mouths. They waved, took photographs, held signs for loved ones or random strangers. The bands played and spirit teams cheered, waving pom poms and spirit fingers. I got caught up, the excitement energized me and I felt unstoppable. It was amazing. The time flew by. As always, the run kindly offered things to me. Strangers on a Sunday morning, forced to stay home, could be incredibly kind. And, somewhere in mile ten when I started getting hot and had to walk up some of those hills, I knew it was just a few moments of a much longer race. It was allowing myself a temporarily slowed pace to make the strong finish.

In the end, I crossed the finish at 2:16:22. This was a few minutes slower than my pace time, but given everything, it was a good time.

 

After almost seventeen years, this is my first day without her. She came into my life at eight weeks old, a Shih-Tzu/Lhasa Apso bundle of fur. She melted my heart. I learned very quickly, on the drive home, that she snored when she slept. Over the years that snoring would comfort me on countless sleepless nights, knowing all was right with my world.

Our first five years were spent in Seattle, where we often walked in the rain. She never did like being toweled off after a rainy walk. As I held her, trying to dry her feet, she’d squirm, my sign to put her down so she could shake like wet dogs do, splattering water droplets everywhere. During the housebreaking phase I remember one night walking back and forth in the apartment lawn, heavy rain, both of us soaked, waiting for her to squat and potty. When we went back inside, she immediately went into the living room and peed on the floor!

She was very mellow and low maintenance. She didn’t need much exercise. If we took walks and she was tired, she’d just lie down on the ground. I would have to stop and pick her up and carry her. I used to laugh and laugh when she did this. It was like she was saying, “Ok, I’m done.” She loved car rides and we went almost everywhere together. She would guard the car, fiercely barking if anyone approached.

We moved to Wichita in our sixth year and things changed. Until then, we had spent all our time together and suddenly she was left at home all day in a strange place. She was a trooper though and adapted as best she could. She had loved meeting new people and dogs, but in Wichita she was more leery and reserved. I did my best to help her understand that she was still my girl and that wouldn’t change. Even though we didn’t spend as much time together, that face always greeted me when I walked in the door. She still followed me from room to room in the house, and even sat outside the bathroom waiting for me. Each night at bedtime, she’d hop up on the bed and I’d kiss her head as I told her “good night and sweet dreams”.

Eventually we settled into a new house with Rob and Zoe. This is where a new puppy came to live with us, and then a couple of cats. She did not appreciate the new puppy at all, but in time learned to tolerate her. She felt the same about the cats. Gabby taught the new puppy the bark-growl game that they liked to play while I was in the shower. It sounded like they were about to tear into each other, so I’d hop out of the shower, wrap a towel around myself and open the door. Each time, there stood two puppies staring up at me, tails wagging, nothing wrong.

We moved to San Diego in our fourteenth year. By this time she was a pro a cross country trips. She rode on my lap the entire trip from Wichita. She was always good at riding in cars. When we pulled into the driveway, she jumped up, knowing we were at our new home, excited to get out of the car. She was still curious as ever, running through the house, sniffing all the new smells.

By this time she was starting to show signs of her age. The gray in her coat was becoming more noticeable. She was still active and followed me everywhere. She spent weekdays with me in my office, snoring away during my conference calls. I often found myself explaining the odd noise to coworkers.

It took a couple more years for her to really slow down. It didn’t happen all at once, the decline was gradual, almost imperceptible. Looking back, I see it. She lost her hearing and her joints stiffened, making walking more difficult. She stopped jumping up on the couch, where she slept while we were out. Instead she slept in the bed on the floor. She stopped meeting me at the front door when I came home. At first I hollered for her, and she’d come running. Then she lost her hearing and I gave up. Instead I would seek her out to let her know I was home and would take her outside.

She stopped letting me know when she needed to go outside. She did this thing where she would sit and stare at me. It was her signal. She stopped doing this and would often find a spot in the house and just go. I had to watch her carefully, like when she was a puppy. When she wasn’t able to walk down the four steps into the yard, I carried her. I knew she was getting tired. I carried her from room to room so she could be with me. I wasn’t ready to let her go.

I was lucky. We had so many good years together. I have a lifetime of memories. She was my first dog, my best friend. She filled such a big space in my heart. How was I to know this four-legged fur ball would bring such joy to my life? Almost seventeen years to the date, I let my dear, sweet girl go. I already miss her.

It’s smack in the middle of October and I am lying on the beach. I am not trying to brag, but three years after moving, it’s still a little strange to be able to wake in the morning, eat breakfast in my home and drive twenty five minutes to the beach. I am still getting used to this.

All the years that came before this move told a very different story in October. By now, I could be hearing the crunch of dried leaves beneath my feet as I walked outside. The Midwest autumn would be in full swing. Even during my Seattle years, October meant change. It signaled the beginning of a period of months of rain as the days grew shorter and shorter. I  used to leave my job at 5:00pm and it was dark. I remember feeling like I lived in a world of darkness, especially there, under constant cloud cover and fewer daylight hours.

But that’s not my life anymore. While it may seem that I constantly long for places past, that’s not the case. I fall in love with places. They get under my skin, are the air that I breathe. When I leave, they remain embedded. They mold me, form me, become the root of all comparisons. I carry them, sometimes unwillingly, through every forward moment.

Back to my life here, at this moment, lying on the beach. As I write this, something catches my eye. To my right, a giant red ball rolls slowly along the sand toward the water. A woman’s voice cuts through this suddenly surreal scene. She tells the little boy running after the ball to go around the other side. I had gotten lost in the moment, in the breaking of waves and the easy movement of boats on the water. I was caught in the flow of writing, thoughts spilling onto paper when a giant red ball rolls by and I stop to stare.

It trips me up, it causes pause. I move from my towel to my chair in an effort to refocus. The sun is warm and the sand cool beneath my feet. I lose the moment and stare at the line where the ocean meets sky, two blues becoming the same. Seagulls cross my line of sight, crying. Tourists snap selfies, walk along the sand, pick up shells. The waves break and crash into the rocks, scatter shells on the sand. It’s peaceful and alive. I’ll carry this, too. This place, this moment, through all the days to come.