December 8 Moment of peace. An hour or a day or a week of solitude. What was the quality of your breath? The state of your mind? How did you get there?
Monopoly on a white cottage table deep into night. Tess asleep, tired from sun and beach and water. The rest of us–me, John, and Emma–stayed up past midnight sunburned and buying and selling tiny red houses and green hotels.
"We're going at sunrise, right?" Emma asked as we folded up the game board. I hesitated, knowing sunrise would come in too few hours.
"Yes, honey, we're going," I said.
The alarm came quickly.
I padded into her room in the dark. "Emma…Emma…"
She sat up. We left just a few moments later, walking out into blackness so humid my glasses fogged.
We walked a few blocks to the beach, alone on the street, just the two of us.
We were older that very day, our shared birthday. Emma was born on my 33rd birthday. This marked number 50 for me, and her 17th.
We spent the first few hours of it alone on a beach, sitting on a towel, watching the sun rise together.
#Best09
