windinthemaples

We arrived at the beach, barefoot, after a late afternoon nap in the car. It was the first mild day we've had in a week--the wind had subsided to a pleasant, stirring breeze and the sun warmed the air to a comfortable sixty-something degrees. Still too cold for sunbathers and swimmers, but perfect for us in sweatshirts to spend a few hours playing on the beach as the setting sun painted everything pastel shades of pink and purple and magical blue.

Curious seagulls and sandpipers skipped closer to inspect Graeme's excavations with shovel and pail. He collected shells and sand and bleached pieces of feather-light driftwood and we spent hours ranging up and down the beach, climbing towards the sea grape and the dunes, running back to the hard-packed low-tide sand. Graeme toddled along and would turn around, always excited to recognize the shape of his own feet pressed into the smooth sand. He picked up grubby fistfuls of sand and cycloned them into the air around him, raining sand on his shoulders and hair. He listened to the sound of the waves and claimed, more than once, that he heard a whale in its depths. He borrowed my camera and took photos of the sand, the sea, and the "nice blue sky".

As the sun set, I carried him and his bucket back to our car, making a stop at his request to say goodnight to the sea turtles bedding down in hospital tanks across the way at the Marinelife Center. We blew them kisses through the chain link fence.

Every moment of it--perfect.

God let me never forget the hours spent together, the genius and gentleness of my son at this age, and the way I felt--complete, fulfilled, humbled to be so blessed.