Sands of Time

 

As the seagulls cry, an echo of my children's voices fills my mind and my heart. How many times did we bring them here to the ocean? So many. Too many to count. Over there I can see the shadow of my son's curls, bouncing as he runs in and out of the waves, laughing with abandon. Here I see my daughter drawing names in the sand, remembering the time she wrote our dog's name the summer after our family dog passed. The echo of my oldest son's joyous voice fills the air from my memories as I picture him filling buckets with water to dump on an unsuspecting sibling. And I can still see my youngest's cautious approach to the water, eyeing it warily as he played on the edge. 

The years passed while I was busy doing everything else, and today I sit here alone with a book and my notebook to soak in the sun and relax to the sound of the waves. Two of my kids are adults now and the other two are rapidly approaching. Those precious days of family days to the beach, or children's theme parks, or mini golf are mostly the stuff of memories now. Yes, we still do all those things, but having all the kids together is rare. 

My two youngest are basically humoring me by going to the children's theme park now, having realized without my having to say it that I'm clinging to it desperately as one of the last pieces of their childhood before our family was destroyed. As I watch little ones digging in the sand today, I'm struck by just how many years it really has been since I've brought a bucket and shovel to the beach. 

When did the boogie boards and shovels get replaced by Bluetooth earpieces and extra beef jerky? Did I know when I spent what felt like hours chasing my kids down the eastern seaboard that one day I'd look back and miss those crazy early days? But also …am I looking at this all through rose colored glasses? 

What is the truth? 

I remember that day at the ocean, when my daughter wrote the dog's name in the sand. We flew kites and took pictures and the kids swam. My heart holds onto these memories so tightly. But … I also remember the drive home, if I allow myself to think of it. I remember my ex, half in the bag from a coffee cup that wasn't caffeinated in the least, screaming at me about something before we'd gotten ten minutes away. I remember trying to placate him, because that's what I did. That's what I always did. 

I thought placating and soothing the savage beast - because that's what he was - was the best thing for the kids. What alternative did I have? I was a stay at home mom who left the workforce over a decade prior. I had no money of my own, and he threatened to take the kids if I ever left. I had been isolated, abused, worn down. But still … I thought it was best to keep the family together. Why I thought that was likely a combination of trauma and fear. And I honestly thought he would take the kids and that paralyzed me from trying to act. 

So instead of stepping out in power and faith, I subjected my kids to withnessing the abuse of their mother. Over the years as I grew tired of it, and as the abuse got worse, I started fighting back. There was clearly a small spark of my spirit left and it wanted to live. But fighting back made the fights so much worse … I'm ashamed of the fact that I fought back but never left. 

Until I did. Granted, the method of my leaving was unusual, and it took me being pushed to the point of snapping to make me finally act. My ex's new partner was doing everything in her power to literally kill me or make me kill myself, but I did neither. 

I may have left in a bright flash of anger that sprung from somewhere I thought was long dead, but I did it. I did it. 

And today I sit at the ocean, and I realize the past isn't all one thing and it isn't all another thing. My memories of my kids as little ones aren't just rose colored glasses. Those are precious, special moments in time and nothing will ever change that. The rest? 

I'll write names of the ghosts of the past in the sand and let the waves wash them away.