By February, we're soggy and sullen. Done with suffering beneath the incessant drip-drip, wrestling against the wet, grey smother -- we flee to the beach.
It isn't warm. It isn't even always dry. But there is the pull and crash of waves to silence the ticker tape of life-grind: "laundrydishesworksleepbillslaundrydisheswork" becomes the hush and roar of water. The wind blows clean. The woods are muffled in moss shrouds, green and salty, glimmer-soaked. There are nacreous shell-halves for scooping sand. There is sharp seagrass. There are stars.
My mama chest releases, widens toward the water, watching my girl run wild, arms open to the wind. No pavement lines or driveways to halt her flying feet, she's free. And so am I.
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