The Salt Marsh

It is muddy on the path down to the shore because of all of the rain. The kids are so excited. There are smiles on each of their faces. The teachers are vigilant, counting the number of five year olds as they make their way down to the shore. Kindergarten is "shore school." There is joy in the play on the shoreline as they use pieces of plastic tubing, buckets, and sticks to dig and create channels for the water.

Tall rubber boots over jeans and raincoats dot the beach. But I have my beige Nike Air Force Ones on. It was not the right choice. We were having so much fun that I didn't care.

The lunchboxes came out. Little kid foods like bags of cereal and applesauce and crustless bread sandwiches were opened up and nibbled on with baby teeth. Grapes. Pretzels. Water bottles with stickers and their names on them to wash it down.

They wore backpacks too big for their little bodies, but they carried them without complaint (mostly without complaint). Little hands held one another's and the grown ups' hands. Axel stared up at me with such pride and gratitude. His mom took the time off of work to just be. With him. On this field trip to nature within Brooklyn before the spray bottles of bleach were hard to come by in the school hallways.

This was that time, before the panic-filled eyes darted from face to face wondering who might be a danger to the rest of us. It was before nurses played their patients' favorite songs in hospital rooms to make their passing from here to there feel more personal. As if they had names and families, which they always had.

He selected a big chocolate chip cookie and a box of milk when I held him up to the counter at Henry's Local. I ripped off pieces of a croissant and washed them down with coffee. We looked like big and little twins in our selfies - same nose, same smile. The to-do list never ends. The emails don't just vaporize. The heart pounds as the news app loads on the cell phone and I wonder if The Road by Cormac McCarthy is a true story. Would I be the Mom who couldn't stand it anymore, or the Dad who pushed through until the end so those little hands would be held; always held.

We walked that short block home, sun beaming down on the trees and our faces dazzled with the delight of a normal day. Mom and Son. The branches are a canopy above Second Place. Our muddy sneakers carry us home.