When you're little,
the beach means sandcastles
and seashells and swimsuits,
it means food, it means fun,
it means family.
The water is always blue
and there are sailboats on the horizon
and the only things the wind affects
are the kites in the breeze.
Your mom smiles more
and your dad's jokes are better
and you can run all day
without ever noticing you're tired.
As you get older, you start to notice
that saltwater tastes a lot like tears—
so you hope that all it is on your lips
when you kiss your mother on the cheek
is just the ocean.
And you find a lot of cigarettes
and shards of broken bottles
under your grandfather's porch—
but you tell yourself they had been there
even before your grandmother's funeral—
and at night the waves crashing
carry her whispers back to this beach
because she knows it's the place where
we'll think of her the most.
But a few years beyond that,
the tears in the saltwater
start to taste a lot like your own
and you know your grandmother
is still sending whispers
but you can hardly remember her voice
and the beach still means
remembering her,
but it's also started to mean
forgetting.