in the Sand
July 2015, Mothers Always Write
When my daughter was five or six I packed the car and drove to the lake. I had to lug bottles of water, a bag of fishy-smelling beach toys, a lunch cooler, and a lawn chair across the parking lot and down the stairs to the beach. I stopped to take a breath and take in the scenery.
Broken flips flops, water engorged diapers, plastic bags, and pieces of glass littered the shore from the weekend. My daughter took off barefoot to scare a gaggle of seagulls. I screeched for her to be careful (I imagined her cutting her foot and getting an infection), but only managed to scatter the seagulls before she got to them.
I set up my lawn chair, trying to avoid a decomposing fish with flies buzzing around its dead jelly eyes. Almost immediately we were surrounded by a horde of children wanting to borrow our beach toys. I could not keep track of them and my daughter, who had wandered ankle-deep into the water only to run back when a frothy wave unfurled and threw itself at her. I didn’t even bother to sit down. What was I thinking! This place was a death trap.
My daughter came running back, “Look Mommy,” she shouted excitedly. In her hand she clenched a plastic tampon applicator, a shiny foil condom wrapper, and tabs from beer cans. “Treasures!” she exclaimed.
This past week my 23-year-old daughter came home from a semester abroad in
London and traveling solo
Just like that day on the beach, I envisioned every last thing that could go
wrong—and did, a little bit. She had her phone stolen on the train, she got
caught in the rain, she missed her flight home, but despite all the bad stuff
that happened she made it back with treasures: a button found outside a West
End theater, a picture a friend had scribbled on the back of a napkin, a
postcard from Madrid, a seashell found on the beach at Malaga, the fragment of
a map folded and refolded in the rain outside a castle.
I might not be done freaking out—there is ALWAYS something to worry about—yet I’d like to learn to distill treasures from trash and keep in mind memories, smooth as sea glass, churned up by rough waters.