It’s mid November. The beach is cold. I wrap my daughter in my jacket to keep warm.
It is quiet. We listen to the lapping waves, far away planes, distant fishing boats. I grew up on this beach.
At three years old, I wonder if she is old enough to remember this. That this might become a memory in adulthood.
A kernel of identity.
Translation: ‘Yes. I would rather she did a poo here than make a mess in the car on the way home.’
Translation; ‘This is taking a long time. Let’s go!’
Translation; ‘Yes. Just wait. She needs to finish her poo.’
…
Oh that's lovely! Just when the heart is swelling with bittersweetness, here comes a dog taking a shite. That's golden hahaha!
She'll remember the love too