I’m looking at my baby pictures, childhood pictures, 5 years old with my family at Cape Cod. I’m older now than my parents are in these pictures – almost 10 years older – and I can almost see my father in them as my younger brother. But it’s more complicated than that.
I love the memories I have of that place, of being there with them – with all my family. My youngest brother was just an infant then, less than a year old, but we were all there.
We’ve talked about that vacation my whole life, and it’s still the ideal vacation that all my other vacations have not measured up to: three weeks of idleness and togetherness so removed from the cares of the world that we literally lost track of time – showed up a day late for 4th of July fireworks, in fact. I almost said “removed from the everyday,” but that’s just it – it *was* the everyday. We were just a loving, happy family, and time, and radio and tv and all the rest,
wasn’t necessary. And it still isn’t, but I’ve never been able to forget it all like I did – like we call did – then.
I’m still there. I still want to be that five year old, taken to the beach by my young, beautiful father and mother. I want to play with my brothers barefoot in the sand for three weeks, until time stops and childhood and summer and innocence never end.