On the Writing in Wet Sand

CB and I are wrapping it up for the evening. She’s on top of her little bed house, peering over the railing. It’s the night before Halloween, and she’s nervous. This whole last month she’s been back in bed with us, waking up frightened in the early hours. Getting her to sleep takes longer than it did, and she chats as she tries to calm herself down.

“How do you kill a zombie Daddy?”

“There’s no such thing, sweetie.”

“Yeah, but how do you kill one?”

I look up from my Sudoku puzzle. “Well, in the movies, they chop its head off.”

“Why?”

“Because the body needs the brain to function. Even in zombies”

“Why?”

“Because the brain sends messages to the body that tells it what to do. If the brain is gone, the body doesn’t know what to do.”

“Is it easy to chop their heads off?”

“Honey, you never have to worry about it. I’ve been to many places, and seen many things, and I have never seen a zombie, nor do I know anyone that has.”

“But what if you have to chop their head off?”

“Sweetie, that’s just in the movies. Don’t worry about it.”

“But how do they know in the movies? How do they know it would really work? How do they know?”

**

We’re all at the beach. I’ve just come back from a run, and it’s slowly getting to be time for us to head home. The girls and I play tag with the waves, LA holding my hand, CB, running next to us. I lift Lily up when a bigger wave comes in and drag her toes through the water. She’s laughing. I look next to me and see that CB has been knocked down and is riding the surf to shore. She’s a good swimmer, but this is the first time that a wave has pushed her over like this, the first time she has gotten a taste, herself, of the power of the ocean, even in a foot or so of water. There’s a look of panic on her face. I head over behind her, in case she doesn’t get her footing, and am in position to catch her if she gets dragged back out, LA in my other arm. The wave recedes, she has clung tenaciously to the sand, long wet streaks where she was pulled back towards the ocean, a mix of fear and victory on her face. For now, she’s had enough.

LA plods through the sand to throw her little cold, wet body on her mother. CB stays along the edge of the waves now, drawing in the sand with a stick. She begins to write “I love…” but the wave sweeps up and takes it away. She scowls. “Why does it do that?”

“That’s how waves and sand are, boo. Nothing you put in them lasts very long. You write what you want to and then it goes away.”

CB chews on her lip. She goes further upslope to edge of damp sand and makes a long rectangle. “Guess what this is for?” she says with a bright smile. I make an exaggerated questioning shrug of the shoulders and watch her. “I…love…you…Dada” she prints it out nice and clear, her handwriting rapidly becoming better than mine. She shakes her stick, flinging wet sand, then trots off to see her sister and mother. I’m patting my pockets to see if I have my phone for a photo. I don’t. A wave sweeps up, over the writing, clearing most of it.

If I was a different writer, a different father perhaps, I would tell you that the wave washed it all away except for the word “love”, that it left me with a jovial feeling that all was right in the world and that everything would be ok. What was left, though, was “Dada”, the water sweeping the “I love you” to wherever the ocean keeps such messages, the sea playing a different game with me than with CB, a grown-up game. I frowned and stared out at the waves. I bent down and re-wrote the word “love”, and walked over to join my family.

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