It’s not the beach of our dreams, or even our memories. But it’s a strip of sand, and a breakwall, then another strip of sand, and another breakwall, and on ’til the channel that runs into the creek behind my mom’s house on the Northern Neck.
Mirra loves to go to the beach–she’ll suck up the three miles round trip in the hot sun to make it there, so she can stick her sniffler into the sand and find crabby bits, and fishy bits, and funky things to roll in.
Billy likes to paw in the little waves, and take a drink, even though the water is brackish, and Potomac, and I really don’t want to think about its composition.
I watch the birds, and look out towards the east, across the ocean.
Back at the house, I pop open a shandy to quench my thirst as the pups drink from their bowl. Grapefruit shandy, a lovely combination–whoever thought of this I’d think was Leinenkugel’s.