Unspoken
Digital Pencil 11.5" x 14.06"
Grace Ainsworth is an Midwestern alum, and this piece of hers first appeared inVoicesin 2022.
A Day at the Beach
Barbara Reese Yager
Ocean City, New Jersey was our family beach. Each summer, Dad drove us over the Ben Franklin Bridge to start Memorial Day weekend. Mom said the traffic was painful, one ache for two weeks of happiness. Dad drove back to work then joined us the next weekend. Each year, we rented the same two-bedroom apartment at “Top of the Waves.” It was owned by the Murphys, who we knew from church. Dad liked it because it was quiet, safe. Mrs. Murphy had a tiny store with milk, deli meats, and ice cream. I loved strawberry. When we walked to Boyer’s Market and Mike’s Seafood, I corralled the littles. I was ten when the littles came along. Kyle, now four, was a skinny, blue-eyed, blond mop-head with an infectious laugh. Mom called it the Cory laugh after Dad's family. Kimmy, now two, was Kyle's rounder mini-me. She still had pudgy legs. Kimmy was Dad's favorite, as she looked just like mom. With brown hair and eyes, I didn't look like them. They were skinny. I was not. I played left wing in field hockey. Mom made my clothes since I was too big for Wanamaker’s girls’ department. But I belonged to Mom, Dad, and the littles. My life’s universe. From the third floor, you could smell the salt and the fish and the sea. The gulls calledcome- come.The sun blazed. The sand would not burn our feet, quite yet. The ocean was colored Crayola’s® Jungle Green. White foam scattered over the beach like Mom’s vanilla lace cookies. After breakfast, Mom packed our drinks, towels, buckets, and shovels. We waited at the bottom of the steps while Mom brought everything down to the Radio Flyer Red Wagon. When ready, Mrs. Murphy’s son, Keith, walked out on the sand and dug the hole for our umbrella. At eighteen, I thought Keith dreamy. We made sandcastles near the edge. Kimmy shoveled sand into buckets. I added water and punched the sand down. Kyle turned them into castle turrets. Mom watched from under the umbrella. The littles loved when the ocean bubbles pushed near. They would squeal their Cory laugh over and over like the chorus of a song. I waded out to cool off. Out of the corner of my right eye, I spied Kimmy’s pink measuring cup rolling toward the surf. I shuffled my feet on the sandy bottom. I thought the cup would bob to me. A bigger wave came in—I jumped to miss being knocked down. When I wiped my face clean, Kyle and Kimmy were in the surf reaching toward the pink cup. The next wave pulled them out. I dove under to catch them. The sea was deep, dark green. Were my eyes open? Where were their skinny white legs? Breaststroke. Kick kick. I could get them. My lungs ached. Was it a riptide? A burly old man pulled me out of the ocean. His big hands squeezed water out of my lungs. There was the darkest black then, Mom screaming, “Nooo, nooo, nooo!” The sound haunted me for the rest of my life.
