The Connection
Camille B ( 6th Grade )
My pecan-colored feet bury deeper into the pale sand , the colors blending together like bleached hair fading into its natural shade of brown .
My mother didn ’ t want to come . My father is swimming in the chest-high salty ocean water with my younger brother , Milo . The two of them are splashing and laughing in the endless , blazing sun , as big and as ripe as a cantelope .
I push my sunglasses further up on the bridge of my nose , and bury our stripy umbrella deeper into the sand . I dig around in the bag containing assorted foods , and pull out the sandwich meant for my father . It consists of bacon , lettuce , and tomato , along with two pieces of marbled bread and flecks of sesame seeds like stars in a swirling sky . My preferable sandwich would have been Peanut Butter and Jelly , but my father only packed BLT ’ s . Nevertheless , I bite into it and sigh . The various flavors and consistencies mix and melt together like contrasting colors .
I dig around in my duffel bag , and pull out the novel I am in the midst of . I begin to read . I travel back in time , through the first ice age , where a mammoth is stomping across glossy ice . Wind and snowflakes dance like ballerinas .
I lose track of time and before I know it , Milo and my father are toweling dry and pulling on clean shirts over their damp , bare skin . I pack up my book and grab my unused towel sitting lonesome in a mound of sand . Together , we walk up the sandy hill in silence , the soles of our feet burning in the fading sun . Milo suddenly drops his bag and half-eaten snack , and he rolls down the hill . His bag of potato chips fills with sand .
Minutes later , he runs back up , a huge grin on his face . His hair is covered with splotches of sand , and even his cheeks are slightly glazed as though he has suddenly grown a stubbly beard . My father returns the lopsided smile and tucks his head into his knees , rolling down the hill without thinking twice .
I mutter under my breath about the hot dinner waiting for us at home , but no one is there to hear my whining .
My father has always been a child at heart . He plays and laughs with Milo as though they are brothers , and is always there to comfort him in when his is upset or alarmed . My mother is extremely introverted and doesn ' t leave our small house much unless she absolutely has to . She is an artist , but never displays any of it to the public . Only me , my father , and Milo have ever seen even a single stroke .
Milo and my father come skipping back up the hill , their bodies covered head to toe in sand , decorating their bodies like shimmering sequins . I stop them before they can repeat their long , dirty descend down the hill . After some arguing , mostly done by Milo , they reluctantly agree and we set off towards home , thinking not of mother , hot dinners , or the darkening sky that seems to be slowly engulfing us , but of the fun and peacefulness of the ocean waiting for us until tomorrow .
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