Hourly the sounds of ocean waves crashing, the musty clear breezes, gritty sand whipping on my face become fading memories given for a brief time. The sounds and smells of home clutter the senses of relaxation and all but devour the peace of having nothing to do but wake, walk and lay in the sun, greased in lotion that cakes with sand. Counting shells.
Building walls that will be knocked down (and I don’t care). Watching the kids run back and forth in the tides. Sitting on the patio with wine in hand, watching the stars overhead and the faint clouds of the Milky Way. To be full, stuffed. Satisfied.
I’m more tired now, at home, among the reminders of responsibility — parenthood, working, coupling. Of waking to work, and meet the needs of everyone demanding this and that. Being daddy. Being husband. Over and over.
But there, somewhere, is a laugh within the perspective of memory. Weighed down, but feeling yet again ready to trudge through it all, retaining all that I can of those pictures of senses, of memory.