Avalon, New Jersey
There’s a whole beach
and two little boys land in a spot
nearby,
next to me.
I’ve come here,
alone,
to take some time
for calm reflection.
I feel proud
for seeking this moment.
Nestled in a beach chair,
I look down at my sun-screened thighs
reflecting the sun and gleaming
a toasty brown color as they emerge
from the paleness of winter.
My spot – chosen to be far enough
away from chatty crowds and
crying babies
to avoid
distraction –
faces south, into the sun.
The breeze is gentle,
not warm but not unpleasant.
The sound of the waves is hypnotic.
And here, these boys, brothers,
have discovered this place
among the whole expanse of beach.
I fight the urge to flatter myself to think
this about me and some motherly,
magnetic aura.
They are unaware of my presence,
a few feet away.
They are digging in the sand,
the younger boy in a diaper
and a bit unsteady on his feet.
I notice the
distraction,
momentarily annoyed, and
then I am blissfully reminded
of my motherhood,
of my babies.
Not the specifics of them,
but the general concept that
once I, too, must have
risen from my beach chair
to collect my children
from the spot where they were
playing on a beach,
and apologized to the older woman
sitting
alone,
nearby,
who probably wanted
peace and quiet.
