The days we stopped fighting
Context – We used to have family reunions in Myrtle Beach when I was young, thanks to the generosity of my grandfather Art. Every year under the direction of my uncle our ankle-biting hordes would spend the entire day building a giant sandcastle. I wrote this in the Houston airport on my way to grandpa’s funeral.
The scorching sun shone southern rays on sand,
surrounding surf susurrous, seagull shriek
reminding runt-sized engineers that land
in castles oceanside’s forever weak.
Rambunctiousness and sunscreen. Teamwork. Juice.
Each plastic pail scavenged from the seas.
From sunrise war for only lunch would truce,
while stalwarts stayed to style their filigrees.
Its summer arc shorn by umbrella’s shade,
the sun surveyed our juvenile hive.
Approving from the seat beneath, Art’s grayed
hair topped a daylong grin: he liked our drive.
For evanescent unity and glee
of child delight, thanks Art for memory.