This is one of my favorite pieces of writing I have ever done. It may or may not be the best writing ever, but it is about my favorite day I have ever had.
Read on....
The Favorite Day
The perfect day. It did exist. I lived in it, I dwelled in it, I made it mine. And then I bottled it up to put on display in our home.
We went to the beach for the day. I had tugged on my swimsuit in spite of my five month swelling pregnant belly; Mark had made us a picnic. An hour later, we were tromping through the sand, looking for a place to settle among the crowd. We did, and spread our old blanket out, then lathered me with sunscreen.
I laid on the blanket; Mark jumps into the water like a child. I watch him go way out from behind my sunglasses. Soon he comes back and we go wading together, not as far out as he had been before. We wonder if the baby could feel the ocean's rhythm, and discuss this as baby's first trip to the ocean.
After our water frolic, we lunch on ham sandwiches, strawberries, chips and cookies, sipping Diet Cokes in between bites. We watch a large Asian family trot onto the beach in what could only be described as their Sunday best. Three little girls in flowered dresses, dress socks, and shiny black Mary Janes, and two young boys in khakis and polo shirts. The mother, father, and who I assumed to be the grandmother were all dressed a bit more casual, in shorts and tees. They rent chairs and an umbrella, then each child took a turn at changing while the rest of the family shielded them from view with brightly colored beach towels.
After lunch, we doze on the blanket, holding hands. A small airplane flies over the beachline, pulling a sign announcing 5 T-shirts for $10 at Famous Fred's. The waves crash onto the sand, kids scream with glee. A British family sits under their umbrella, staring into the ocean. Except for the mother, who is oiling her already well baked body. Gold jewelry dangle from her ears, neck, and wrists. None of them speak.
Mark suggests a walk. We take an empty tupperware with us to collect shells. We walk just along the water. People watch us go by, probably looking at my protruding stomach. I barely notice. I have never felt more beautiful than I do this day.
We gather shell after shell until we can hardly put the lid successfully on the tupperware. We walk back hand in hand. Mark kisses my fingers and tells me he loves me. The airplane is flying over head again. There is a soft breeze coming off the ocean, just enough to cool the sand. We get back to our spot and I ease myself back onto the blanket. Mark goes to take one last dip. Only the Chinese mother and grandmother are on the beach, sitting in chairs, still fully clothed; the father is in the water with all the children.
The sun feels so warm, so comfortable, so happy. I drink the rest of my Diet Coke, even though it is near boiling. The British family is in the water, including the mother. Mark is bobbing in the water about twenty feet from them. The sand pipers are at the water's edge, scuttling along.
When Mark returns, we pack our things and leave. We rinse off at the out door showers and take turns toweling one another dry. We drive home, both of us tired but blissful. At home we take a nap. Before we fall asleep, Mark kisses my stomach and says, "I love my babies".
Now, all our shells from that day sit in a large glass bowl. They remind me of that simple, pure day. That day, my favorite day.
The perfect day. It did exist. I lived in it, I dwelled in it, I made it mine. And then I bottled it up to put on display in our home.
We went to the beach for the day. I had tugged on my swimsuit in spite of my five month swelling pregnant belly; Mark had made us a picnic. An hour later, we were tromping through the sand, looking for a place to settle among the crowd. We did, and spread our old blanket out, then lathered me with sunscreen.
I laid on the blanket; Mark jumps into the water like a child. I watch him go way out from behind my sunglasses. Soon he comes back and we go wading together, not as far out as he had been before. We wonder if the baby could feel the ocean's rhythm, and discuss this as baby's first trip to the ocean.
After our water frolic, we lunch on ham sandwiches, strawberries, chips and cookies, sipping Diet Cokes in between bites. We watch a large Asian family trot onto the beach in what could only be described as their Sunday best. Three little girls in flowered dresses, dress socks, and shiny black Mary Janes, and two young boys in khakis and polo shirts. The mother, father, and who I assumed to be the grandmother were all dressed a bit more casual, in shorts and tees. They rent chairs and an umbrella, then each child took a turn at changing while the rest of the family shielded them from view with brightly colored beach towels.
After lunch, we doze on the blanket, holding hands. A small airplane flies over the beachline, pulling a sign announcing 5 T-shirts for $10 at Famous Fred's. The waves crash onto the sand, kids scream with glee. A British family sits under their umbrella, staring into the ocean. Except for the mother, who is oiling her already well baked body. Gold jewelry dangle from her ears, neck, and wrists. None of them speak.
Mark suggests a walk. We take an empty tupperware with us to collect shells. We walk just along the water. People watch us go by, probably looking at my protruding stomach. I barely notice. I have never felt more beautiful than I do this day.
We gather shell after shell until we can hardly put the lid successfully on the tupperware. We walk back hand in hand. Mark kisses my fingers and tells me he loves me. The airplane is flying over head again. There is a soft breeze coming off the ocean, just enough to cool the sand. We get back to our spot and I ease myself back onto the blanket. Mark goes to take one last dip. Only the Chinese mother and grandmother are on the beach, sitting in chairs, still fully clothed; the father is in the water with all the children.
The sun feels so warm, so comfortable, so happy. I drink the rest of my Diet Coke, even though it is near boiling. The British family is in the water, including the mother. Mark is bobbing in the water about twenty feet from them. The sand pipers are at the water's edge, scuttling along.
When Mark returns, we pack our things and leave. We rinse off at the out door showers and take turns toweling one another dry. We drive home, both of us tired but blissful. At home we take a nap. Before we fall asleep, Mark kisses my stomach and says, "I love my babies".
Now, all our shells from that day sit in a large glass bowl. They remind me of that simple, pure day. That day, my favorite day.
I loved this. I am in love with your writing.
ReplyDeleteI giggled, b/c I could just envision Mark jumping in the water like a child (LOL) and bobbing up and down.