Waves
The ocean beckons. It speaks softly and loudly. It breaks in rhythmic cadence. All day, all year, its rhythm never changing. As it speaks softly to me, it’s sound tickles my memory. The beach, a place of solace. The beach, a place of warmth. The beach, memories profound. Coney Island. Loud. Happy. Hot sand. My dad but never my mother. A black and white photo of my brother tormenting me with hot sand. A look of pain on my face. The carousel and catching the golden ring. Knishes! Hot Knishes! Ice cream. Nathan’s hot dog and amazing crinkle fries, NO Ketchup. Cotton candy. George C. Tilyou ’s Steeplechase Park. The parachute jump. Skee ball! Each crash of the wave sparks another memory. My childhood seemed happy. And it was. My parents seemed happily married. Likely they weren’t but they made commitments and stuck to them no matter what. There was no other way. Too much social pressure to even consider anything else. The unwant