Mornings drift in quietly
soft light creeping across the floor,
the beach already whispering our names.
We move through the routine
packing towels, finding hats,
the hum of sunscreen and laughter,
the weight of our baby on my hip,
his warmth, a heartbeat pressed to mine.
Down by the water, the boys scatter.
Our eldest runs across the sand,
fearless, shrieking with joy.
Our 2-year-old squats by a puddle,
pouring the sea from one shell to another.
I put our baby on the sand,
his fingers discovering texture,
smiling, that smile I know so well.
Their father is knee-deep in the surf,
calling them in with that easy, familiar grin.
I watch them together
their voices weaving through the wind.
And something in me aches, gently,
a quiet knowing that this is fleeting,
that these mornings are already becoming memory.
We build castles that the waves erase.
We laugh and rebuild,
pretending not to notice
how everything we love
is always being reshaped by time.
When the sun later softens
and the boys grow heavy with sleep,
we walk home through the streets.
He reaches for my hand
sand still clinging to our skin.
In that simple touch
I know I’ll remember days like this,
long after they’re gone.
After they’re tucked into dreams,
the ocean hums through the window.
I stand for a while,
listening to the waves,
thinking how love lives in these moments
ordinary,
but special,
gone before we know it,
yet somehow, forever ours.
Emilie Turner 