I give in to the sun baked sand, sink down against the smooth log and let it cushion my back. My son squeals as he flings driftwood back into the water. Momentarily, I worry the sand fleas will infiltrate the gap in my sweatshirt, but a breeze floats by, flooding my senses with salty ocean tang and the fear melts away.

I contemplate time, see shadows of our younger selves here fifteen years ago: me, on the verge of adulthood, the three of you swamped in male adolescence. Pesky cousins, you flung Bullwhip kelp at me, the squish inducing a soul deep cringe.  I’m doing the math, trying to figure out the last time we saw each other. It dawns on me that our visits became more of a slow drip than a full shut off. There was back then at this beach, then my wedding, then that time with the Chief and then…well, after that, a smattering of quick one-off visits that barely count.

Your wedding unsettled me, highlighted all the gaps between our lives, distances carved by age and location. It strikes me how central you all were as I came of age, and how absent I was when it was your turn.

  On the brink of forty, I find it easy to lament everything that could have been; the world feels full up on should haves.

What I worry now is that we won’t continue what our parents started, won’t take the time to cross borders to be with one another. Won’t cultivate a tradition of shared experiences. What I worry now is that our relationship will be one of events – weddings, graduations, deaths. What I worry is that we’ll accept this quiet, gradual fading from one another’s lives, and soon our only connections will be memories none of us can piece together clearly. 

What I worry –

Another breeze floats by, and though it doesn’t fully dissipate the worry, it does bring you to the log next to me. How easily we slip into comfort as we talk about life choices – having kids, mortgages, careers. 

It’s a far cry from our play of decades ago, but it gives me hope that maybe we can coax this ebb back into a steady flow of togetherness.

*In the words of Kaveh Akbar from his poem Forfeiting My Mystique, “In Farsi,/we say jaya shomah khallee/when a beloved is absent/from our table – literally:/your place is empty.”