In The Beginning, In The End

I opened the passenger door, and the heat rushed out. You told me the seat was so warm as I buckled you in. Safety first.

When I walked around to the driver's door, I stumbled and put my hand on the hood to steady myself. This was a perfect summer morning, and the sun was shining gently on the car, so I stopped for a moment and let my hand enjoy this perfect heat. Before I put on my own seatbelt, I set the pack that held our lunch onto the back seat, along with the kites we hoped would decorate the sky with glory.

I decided to drive nine miles up the coast, confident that Topanga Beach would be free of crowds. While I would have been content to let my thoughts drift across my Sunday morning mind, twenty minutes would be forever for a five-year-old. To pass the time, we played the Alphabet Game. I was grateful when your sharp eyes found a Z on the license plate of a U-Haul that passed us just before we pulled into the parking lot. For that moment, I was as thrilled by your victory as I was when the Dodgers won the pennant.

Balancing on the driftwood, walking across them like a tightrope, leaping from one to the next, avoiding the hot lava that bubbled in between them, I realized that I was free. I was blessed to be in the company of my son, who forged this path to my bliss.

I was in charge of scouting for the perfect drift log. I rejected several, and this meant that we were quite a way from the trailhead before I found it. The winner could not have been better if it had come from the La-Z-Boy showroom. I set the kites down and retrieved the serape from the backpack. It's red and black strips reassured me, and as many times as I had seen it, I was still pleasantly surprised by the wide, brilliant green bands that were the bookends of our faithful blanket. For something that was so practical, it fostered the invitation to live out loud.

There was a landward wind this morning. I stood in the surf holding your kite out of the water, and you set yourself with your feet dug into the wet sand at the edge of the Pacific Ocean. I used to let you beat me when we would race, but now, as fast as I could run, it was even money who would reach the telephone pole first.

At the word go, my little ball of lightning streaked across the beach, and your kite climbed to meet the fairy clouds. Since I was unaided, my first two attempts to get my kite airborne were unsuccessful, a furrow gouged in the sand their only accomplishment. Third time was the charm, and we flew side by side. As we let out more line, we walked backwards to our timber recliner. We could see our kites, and the knotted tails that anchored them to a vertical state of being, but they were small against the sky. We had over two hundred feet of line out. Perfect.

I put a ball of twine under each knee, dug into the pack, and brought out the cheese and lettuce sandwiches that would keep us from starving to death. Our blanket had soaked up the heat of the day, the sun on our faces was warm, and the breeze that caressed the back of our necks was soothing. I returned to a five-year-old state of mind and watched the kites sway and dip and dance across the pale blue. I looked over to my boy, and I was a father again, moved by the miracle.

Fortunately, when our sandwiches vanished, I remembered the sunscreen that had been a last-minute addition to our riches. One of the benefits that came from your bad sunburn the summer before was the lack of resistance as I applied the lotion to your small frame. There was some minor flinching when I lathered it onto your face, but no complaining. Everything I could have hoped for.

With the sandwiches gone, the baggies that held them had fulfilled their purpose and were returned to the outer pocket of the backpack. After applying my own sunscreen, I put the bottle alongside them.

I took advantage of the perfect day and slid my body down on the blanket. In a show of solidarity, you copied me, and we lay out in the sun like lizards on a rock.

I woke up first. Sitting up, the first thing I did was to check for sunburns. There were no signs, but I touched your arm with my finger to make sure. To double-check, I repeated the test on my thigh. All clear.

You were sound asleep. I could have read the book I brought just for this moment, but I was restless. The tide was out, the beach was wet, and the sand was packed. Just behind our log was a thin branch. I picked it up and walked down to the shoreline, holding this remnant of what may have been a cedar tree from Japan.

Having been modified by time and tide, the branch was the perfect length for writing in the sand. I wrote the name of my first girlfriend, Sonia—then Peggy—then Valerie. In all, there were nineteen names. When I wrote the name of my wife, I carefully printed her entire name: Allison Rosealinda Castellonis—she deserved nothing less than this celebration.

Richmond, Lubbock, Tonapah, St. Croix, Portland. Everywhere that I had ever lived that I could remember. Nova, Galaxy, Impala, Cortina, Miata, every car. I was writing paperboy when I became aware of you standing next to me. "What are you doing?" "I'm writing my life in the sand." "Can I do that?" "Of course, but you'll need a pencil," I said, holding up my stick.

Dishwasher, Band, Janitor. "How should I start?" "Just think about your life and write what is important." "What if I don't know how to spell it?" "You can always draw a picture." My advice was received with a serious nod.

Pizza Cook. Clerk. Laborer. Carpenter. Contractor. Hotel. Retired. Office. Writer. I looked over at what my son had written. There was a picture of a house, a dog, a cat, a woman, and a baby. He looked up at me and pointed at each one, "This is our house, this is Sirius, this is Cleopatra, this is Mom, and this is Benjaman." "I see. I have a question." Like the small professor he was, he was willing to entertain it with a drawn-out, "Yes…"

"Who is Benjamin?" “He doesn't like to be called Benjamin. He likes Bennie." "Who is Bennie?" "My brother," you said proudly. I was slightly confused, "But you don't have a brother." "I will someday!" I wrote your name in the sand and said,” Let's go for a walk down the beach."

We took our sticks and struck off for the far end. I poked holes in the sand, so you poked holes in the sand. I dragged my stick in the sand, making a long, awkward line. You dragged your stick in the sand. I picked up a shell and tried to hit it like a baseball–I missed. Your swing connected, and the shell arched into the ocean.

Next to a small cliff of shale, the beach came to an end, and we made a house out of driftwood. When it was done, we crawled into it, and you told me about your brother. Your brother was very smart, but made funny noises. He couldn't walk yet, but he was an excellent crawler. He said, "Mom," and I was sad because he didn't say, "Dad," yet, but I said I was hopeful. His favorite snack was a peach, but sometimes he spat it out. He sleeps all night now.

"You know him pretty well." "He's my best friend." "Let's walk back."

We played tag with the waves, getting as close as we could, and running away as fast as our legs could go when they attacked us. When we returned to our spot, the low tide had followed the moon. All of my girlfriends were missing. Everywhere I had ever been. Everything I had done. My wife. Our house. Our dog. Our Cat. And your brother Bennie was gone even before he arrived. Your high, sad voice informed me, "Everything's gone." I was sad too, but I reassured you, because I'm your dad, and that's my job, "Don't worry too much. We'll write all of it again when we get home."