We have all gathered at the beach.
For one week, the band is back together.
These precious days are now few and far between, as my children grow up and insist on living their own magical lives.
I’ll take what I can get.
Yesterday, we rode our bikes down to the pier as the sun was starting to set. I watched as they pedaled ahead of me, their faces lit by the low, warm sun, mouths open and laughing, sharing their news, reminiscing, and trading movie lines back and forth.
As I listened to their joyful banter I was reminded of nights in the tent, long ago, when they would talk and laugh and read Calvin and Hobbs comics by flashlight while the crickets chirped around us and the stars rotated along their ancient paths above us.
A lifetime ago.
A moment ago.
I can’t be trusted to know which is the truth.
I can only be grateful that here in this moment, this week, under the sun and next to the waves, they are all mine again. And each other’s as well.
We will swim. We will boogie board. We will nap in the sun. We will pedal our bikes in the bright mornings and in the gorgeous gloamings. We will eat tacos and donuts and açaí bowls topped with granola and honey.
And I will stare. And stare. And stare.
And I will remember.
We have been making this same trip across the desert and down the boardwalk to this donut shop for ten years. Ethan couldn’t even ride his own bike when we first began. Now they are trading stories about their dating lives, their roommates, their study abroad adventures, and missions.
Life has changed. My children have grown up.
But when we ride in fading light to Seaside Donuts, it is as it always was.
Them, enjoying each other. Me, enjoying the view.
I plan to do it forever.