I have a minute now while the toddlers are asleep, before Grandma gets back from swimming lessons with the boys, and though I need to assemble a pot pie, there is no one around who I have waited two years to see and in who's presence it would be downright rude to jump online. So, here I am, saying a quick "hello," and even more quickly I will type out one of those scrap paper posts.
Dated sometime this month.
The water was cold, but I felt compelled anyway. My bare feet thudded over the hot sand as I ran toward the nipping waves, my 31-year-old thighs jiggling and my 2-year-old daughter hollering after me worriedly, "Mama! Mama! Where Mama going?!"I left it all behind me.
When I had run far enough and deep enough, I dove under, hearing the silent hummmm of the giant lake in my ears. Surfacing, my breath came to me quickly, and I looked around. In one direction there was water as far as my eyes could see. In the other direction the kids were waiting, befumbled, chewing on their hotdogs.
For a few minutes more I kept my back to the shore, letting my eyes feast on the sight of the lazy summer sun reclining in the low blue sky. I thought of my Great Aunt Pauly, and how she used to recline on this very beach in her low blue beach chair 20 years ago. She was old and happy, like the sun.
Soon I would return to my family and eat a bratwurst and a s'more, and later, I would clean sand from places on my kids' bodies that I try very hard not to expose myself to on a regular basis.
Lake Michigan and my life have two things in common: there is no end in sight, but there is an end, none-the-less. In the mean time, I will run headlong into the waves and pay no mind to who can see my thighs, and as many chances as I can get, I will linger a few minutes more.
