Dear Graham,
A pelican dives from the sky, scoops a fish into his beak, and swallows it whole before lifting again into the salty air. The tide is low and the beach is wide. We sit at the feet of the sea and let the gentle waves roll over us. The water is cool and refreshing, and our swimsuits and T-shirts fill with sand. Laughing, we walk farther into the ocean to rinse ourselves clean again.
Later we wander up the broad sandy beach to a large pool formed by a circle of rocks. We sit together on the sandy bottom while the cool water swirls around us. In the distance, two grey herons stand upon a rocky hill, perfectly still, as though keeping watch over the shoreline.
After a while, I rise and begin walking toward home while Tom walks ahead of me. I watch his footprints appear one after another in the wet sand. There is something so intimate about a footprint—evidence that someone you love walked beside you for a little while on this earth. Soon the tide will wash them away, but for now they are here, and so are we.
As I look out into the endless sea and wide sky, I feel something larger than words move quietly through me—something steady and eternal that cannot be held in the hand or painted with a brush but can be felt deeply all the same. The ocean seems full of it.
At the place where the sand meets the shoreline, I spot a round dark-purple shell with two tiny red eyes staring upward. It is the shell of a Halloween Crab, washed smooth by the sea. I lift it gently into my hand, amazed by how delicate and beautiful even the smallest creatures are. The beach is full of these little reminders that life leaves traces everywhere—shells, footprints, songs, memories—all small and temporary in their own way yet somehow connected to something endless.
Eventually we reach the log where we hid our flip-flops and my small purse with the phone I could not carry into the water. Nearby, a group of construction workers sit beneath the palm trees drinking cold Corona beers and talking together in the shade. We gather our things and continue on.
Back at the townhome complex, we rinse the salt and sand from our feet at the outdoor shower. A fluorescent green lizard waits in the grass beside the swimming pool. We slip into the water for one more swim before heading home.
Inside, we shower and make a light dinner of leftovers from the night before. Then Tom takes out his guitar, and I pull out my sheet music, and we spend the evening singing “Fly Me to the Moon,” “Help Me Make It Through the Night,” and “Wade in the Water.” I love to sing, even when my voice misses a note here and there. I keep practicing my breathing and support, and little by little I think I’m improving.
Later upstairs we listen to Rita Coolidge and Kris Kristofferson, then Nina Simone, then Norah Jones, filling the house with music and voices we love. One song leads to another until we have a whole growing list we want to learn together.
I love to sing. I love to walk on the beach. I love writing these letters to you, Graham, and to anyone else who might enjoy reading them. Most of all, I hope you are happy, curious, and full of wonder as you discover the world at two years old.
With love,
CC
