This Is How Summer EndsWhit Honea
I have sand in my shorts. It is in my ears, on my feet, and dancing along my keyboard. It refuses to leave me alone. It is glitter’s redneck cousin, rough and coarse, with serious abandonment issues. It clings like magnets and lovestruck.
The boys and I have spent the day between the beach and the sandbox, burying our feet, digging tunnels, and discussing the mysteries of life. They do their best to humor me.
Before I joined them I was doing the things of house and home, washing dishes, doing laundry, drinking coffee, and of course, writing so many blog posts — the endless duties of my domestically.
I spied them from the window, alone, save the company of the other and their world of imagination. Play was moving along at a rapid rate, paced by my boys and a box filled with toys and dirt. It was passing me by. Summer was ending, and I was going to watch it go.
I glanced over at the chalkboard that hangs in the kitchen. I had recently erased the words that had slowly grown one over the other during the course of the past few years. Phone numbers, names of people that borrowed books and never returned them, the slight ghosts of long forgotten grocery lists, these were the fodder of the board, and we ignored them with the indifference that they demanded.
I replaced them all with but a few items, quick and simple suggestions in checklist form that I should rise to meet each day: play, read, learn, work, be healthy, love, imagine, and, for icing, I added a little box marked beer. Sometimes you just have to sit back and enjoy a cold one. Or two.
These words, I vowed, would not be ignored. I looked at the work in my hands and again out the window at my sons and their understanding smiles. Work? Check.
I went outside and spent some time in the sandbox, laughed until our mouths were full of sweat, and then we got in the car, drove 15 minutes, wadded through a sea of humanity, and dipped our toes into the surf of the Pacific. We were covered by its contents, and we are filled with its happiness. So it goes with sand and seasons.
We will think on you fondly, summer.
Photos: W. Honea