It’s an old photograph with bad composition and lousy color. The edges are curled up and brown. But none of that matters. The photo is laced with poignant memories so vivid that when my gaze slides across it, tears prick at the backs of my eyes. I am immediately transported to a place where only good and beautiful images can be found, a place where life revolves around lazy afternoons spent on the beach. In this magical place mothers share secrets with daughters, and grandchildren glean immeasurable bits of wisdom from the cadence of the waves and the soft tones of the women they love.

 

　　A mere moment of our lives, tucked neatly into a small rectangle and preserved forever - years before anything bad came calling.

 

　　In the photo, the beach spreads out on either side, a fishing dock to the left, one of Calcite’s great limestone boats far out on the horizon, and on the right, miles and miles of undisturbed beach. The photo is alive with children and women: mothers, sisters, sons and daughters, nieces and nephews, grandchildren. The lone man in the photo is my father. His shadow stretches long and lean across the restless blue waters of Lake Huron. With immense patience, he casts his line, again and again. My toddler son, his blond curls bleached white, peers across the endless stretch of sand. Mesmerized by his grandfather, he jets down the wet beach as fast as his chubby legs can carry him. His sisters give chase.

 

　　A million dancing whitecaps become myriad diamonds, straining to outshine one another. The glimmering trail sparkles on the vast and seemingly endless body of water that starts at my feet and disappears into the sky, where seagulls dip and swirl, calling to one another as an anxious mother calls to a wayward child.