You are here visiting Southern California on vacation. Soaking up the sun and ordering drinks with umbrellas and getting into the juicy part of life, like you do so well. When I was a kid, you were my magnet - I was drawn to your constant joy. Now I’m an adult, and I drive down to see you so that we can spend the day with our bare feet in the sand, and feel the pull of tides in our bloodstreams, the link of recognition. We are family, even if we don’t act like it most of the time.
“I brought my boogie board!” you exclaim. And you’re excited. And you’re proud. And it means something to you, something significant, that you brought foam with you in a suitcase, on a plane crossing the continent. Such commitment that it breaks me in half. And you’re older than me, but inside you’re younger than me, with untempered freedom and crispness and such hunger for fun. I am warmed by it, still, and all the miles and all the moments we’ve missed, that divided us, they evaporate in an instant. We have this moment, here. We’re together, now.
I picture you smiling on a wave, drenched and delighted. And I’m glad I’ve come to see you. I’m glad you brought your boogie board. I’m glad you can retreat into the ocean, then surf your way back into my heart.
p.s. If you happen to see someone in the actual process of boogie boarding, warning: you will very likely drown with lastima.