love from a lone wolf.

• B: I told you last not because I knew you would give me the most critical response, but cuz I know its the most unfiltered. You lay it down and I appreciate it a whole lot
• m: i care about you a lot, b
• youre one of my trues
• meaning
• you'd do the same with me
• you challenge me
• and you always did, directly, consciously or not
• and you cant find those types of friends everywhere
• na mean, nigga
• damn
• B: I would be all over your shit. Esp if the fool couldn't hit 225.
• m: LOL
• B: Nah, really though...I'm carrying figurative you on my figurative back forever. And of course madden.
• Team 225.
• serious conversations don't exist in our realm.

The last time we went to the beach as a family, we were on the road before sunrise. We wanted it to feel as close to old times as possible, except this time I was driving with my dad wrapped up in a blanket and weary-eyed in the back.

The fondest beach trip memory I have is driving down the garden state in my dad’s ford Taurus wagon- God, he loved that thing to pieces.

My brother and I liked to sit in the little pop up seats in the trunk but this time I let him fly solo because on that great day, I got to sit in the front seat and wear my dad’s aviators.

It was always dark and chilly in the mornings before we left. It was only from experience that I knew the day would eventually break and let in sun and heat. Still, we left the windows open the whole way down and the next time I opened my eyes was to sunbeam and a balmy ocean front. I loved the wind since I was a kid. I loved sticking my head out of the window and losing my breath to the zooming air around me. I let my right hand fly and swim alongside the right lane, with no end in sight but the clouds. I shook my head in sympathy for my brother who had fallen asleep mid-adventure. He was missing all the good feelings.

We stopped at a bait shop to pick up slithering sandworms. They came neatly packaged in a white take out box and my mother always feigned surprise when we brought them to her giggling, thinking she had forgotten every other time we told her we bought lunch for her.

My dad pitched a tent under the boardwalk and we spent all day between waves, on the rocks to see what my dad caught fishing, then eating slightly sandy sandwiches in the shade. I settled salty mis-gulps of water with strawberry twizzlers before falling asleep in my little beach chair, feeling like I was still rolling in the sea. When I woke up, we did it all over again, this time claiming to save the starfish my dad caught when secretly we wanted to take it home to keep. I buried all the toys we brought and lost them all that day. But strangely enough, I didn’t care. They became a part of that land and I was glad to give for once.

We went home with sandy feet— with sand everywhere, skin soft and pulled, the way the ocean always leaves you.

On long drives home, My mother would leave her hand on her knees with her palm up. I think she was patiently hoping my dad would see that yearning hand and give it the company of his. Before my eyes closed curtain on the world around me, I saw him reach over and place his hand over hers.
Nothing could have ruined the day.

Almost 13 years later, I suggested we go again, harboring old sentiments. There were no toys, no twizzlers, no fishing, no tent, but I had on his aviators, my other hand swimming in the air. My brother was my co-pilot and my parents were sitting quietly in the back, just as confused by the switch of roles in such short time.

I swam alone while my brother lazed in the sand. My dad, under the spell of opiates, walked forever on the boardwalk, accompanied by his worried, hurried lover, holding his hand, nodding to his dazed speak. It was soft and quiet and sad but still I felt some peace; my family, far in our spirits’ distance, was close in proximity.

We ended the day early because of the rain. Even the sky was more forgiving at a younger age.

On a long drive home, nudged by the lull of the road and the blurring of a wet windshield, my dad told us stories from his childhood. Some were funny, most were sad but it was the first time we heard him so alive in a while. I peeked at him from time to time between traffic, in the rear-view mirror. He spoke through smile. When we got
home I told him that I hope he writes a book about his life. I would keep it under my pillow forever.

He said if he did, it would begin with our beach trips.

Could You take me beyond
Could You carry me through
If I open my heart
Could I go there with You

For I’ve been here before
But I know there’s still more
Oh, Lord, I need to know You

For what do I have
If I don’t have You, Jesus
What in this life
Could mean any more
You are my rock
You are my glory
You are the lifter
Of my head

sweet cheeks