Yesterday, I drove to Carolina Beach with the Littles. After three years of high rises and sprawling suburbia, I found the waves rushing ashore to welcome me back. I walked out onto the sand, felt it shift beneath my feet. The wind whipped my hair back, tugging and tangling my long, dark curls and, through my nose, I sucked in the salty sea air. It washed through my lungs, scrubbing away the smog and fumes of the big city. From way up in the sky, the afternoon sun warmed my face and arms, and a place in my soul I hadn't noticed freezing over.
I stood there on the coast, listening to the Littles giggle and squeal as the icy, Atlantic waters chased them away from the shoreline, and there was no where else I wanted to be.
I often feel this way around the Littles. A child's heart is a dubious place to call home, of course. Most days, it offers less shelter than a rickety, old shack clinging to a windy mountain bluff. In my sister's children, though, I've found the only place I ever truly belonged. So, I patch the leaky roof with love and affection, hang memories over the holes in the walls and cover the floor with all the patience I can find. Some days we tear it all down, then build it back up with the same tattered pieces, but we're invested. We'll be paying on this mortgage for the rest of our lives and it's worth it to keep the place up, even if it does take a lot of work.
Our little day trip put some dents in the drywall, for sure. The ride there was frustrating. Coming back, it got worse. But while we played at the edge of the ocean, our shack was a grand palace on a pristine beach with sunny skies overhead. So, that night, I collected their sloppy kisses and tucked them into bed, hanging a new memory over the few rough spots. In a palace or a housing project, the Littles are home to me.
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