He won't remember it.
Waves reaching, then retracting.
Seagulls on a hunt. Locals jogging with headphones. Tourists trapping the moment with cameras. Surfers rising and dipping in a watery dream.

Years later I could tell him about the ice cream I bought.
How he refused to try it at first. Vanilla. Ice hard at the beginning, then mushy as the sun did its work.

I could telll him how he enjoyed the treat just as much as the pier. Where a carousel greeted him. And an arcade stole his heart. Pinball. Air hockey. A taxi video game where I pressed on the pedal and let him steer as he sat in my lap.

I'd reminise how he cried. How he loved that pier and didn't want to leave. Running away. Yelling. Forcing me to carry him for a good five minutes. A safe distance from the games.

And when the tears dried, and his composure restored, he asked when he'd return. Tomorrow? Could he go straight to the pier and skip the beach? Could he play more games?

It's strange how memory works.
The best moments I'll carry of my son's life
will be submerged far in his subconscious...
existing like those surfers.

Rising and dipping a watery dream.


(c) 2011 by Vincent Lowry