At the Monterey Bay Aquarium there is an exhibit called Open Sea. It is a spectacle, awe-inspiring; a magnificent 90-foot window glows blue in the dark of the viewing room, and behind it, enormous tuna swim with shoals of sardines and green sea turtles. There are big sharks, 5,000 pound sunfish.
The water is so deep that looking at it, I feel something sort of like vertigo.
At my dad’s house, Dan and I shared a bedroom until I was nine. We had bunk beds, windows with rainbow-striped curtains, and a big round table with a bright red top where I created a cadre of inexpert paper dolls. Continue reading
Stepping single file through the early morning mountain air, holding the little ones’ hands, pulling ourselves over rocks, lifting them over roots. Sheer granite, ancient trees, and fifty feet below us the river coursing. Still we found ourselves wondering out loud if this hike had been the best idea, what with the toddlers and the steep cliffs and the sun barely risen. Continue reading
Kyle was away much of this week for work, unusual and a bit unsettling. None of our routines were quite clicking, waffles were burnt and water bottles lost, and every night after bedtime the sink was full of dishes even though I was the one who had made dinner. Continue reading
From what everyone tells me, my Grandpa Bernie’s slides have always been in their square white boxes. The boxes are nondescript, the kind you probably picture when you think of slide boxes, if you think of slide boxes at all. They are the ones that stack easily into garage corners and attics, that protect their contents from dust while becoming thick with it themselves. If these boxes are notable, it is only for their sheer number: my grandpa had thousands upon thousands upon thousands of slides. Some of them show old old images of relatives, from the days when he himself would have been just a boy. Some show my dad and my aunts and my uncle as kids. Some show surgeries he performed, or an ongoing stream of family trips, family houses, family dogs.
My favorite ones show a glimpse of my grandparents’ love story. Continue reading
I tell myself that I will remember them, running along the sidewalk to the pool, all sun-bleached hair and palpable joy. I will remember their sand-covered toes, the warm sweaty weight of their heads on my shoulder, the exact way that Lucas says “I not too little,” and how Jacob sounds out “square” as “scary.” I tell myself that I will remember, I will remember just how this summer is. I take pictures, to be my trail markers.
Of course, I know enough by now to tell you that memory doesn’t work that way. Continue reading