How many times have we come
here to our Innisfil Beach? I remember
hovering over you as you toddled through the waves, worrying about the sharp
shells against your soft feet, your fingers clinging to mine. Today, you swim blithely, far, far out. I hold up my empty hand when I see you stand
on the sand bar, shielding your eyes from the late afternoon glare as you look
back at me.
Early this spring, excavators
reshaped this shoreline; the grass and rocks moved aside to create wider sandy
beaches. When you were little, you would
have loved to watch the construction, to see the “Mighty Machines” at work. We spent hours back then, going for walks
around our neighbourhood, watching the diggers scoop out basements from the
empty fields. When we drove out a few
months ago to see the construction, you barely looked up from your iPod. I watched the transformation, alone.
At the time, I thought about
how we had read that Lake Simcoe is a remnant of prehistoric Lake Algonquin;
the ice dam had melted and the water levels went down, leaving us our
lake. How long had it taken for this
shoreline to emerge? The construction
rumbled forward, indifferent. By the
summer rush, the sandy beaches would be wide and welcoming to tourists.
Now, the first day of
summer, I watch you swim back to shore, jubilant. You shake the cold water off, leaving your
hair furled in the back. You throw a
ball with your little brother, who chuckles in his way. He is the baby of the family, a replica of
your smaller self. Along the wet sand,
you write with a stick, I WAS HERE. A
wave tumbles in, swipes away some of your letters. You laugh at the game the water plays, and
write your words again.
In a few more days, you will
board the plane for France. You have
been waiting, eagerly, since you heard of the Summer Exchange program at school
months ago. “I should go to France,” you
had announced, all confidence.
“Yes,” my answer surprised
and thrilled you. How could I say no?
You are young, only thirteen, but you will learn so much from a month away from
home in Bordeaux.
Now, at my feet in the sand,
scribbling with a stick, you seem so small.
Am I hurrying you to grow?
Carving at you in a rush? Or is
it just time for certain waters to recede? Watching you, I see a strong, smart, big boy,
with a bright quirky smile; at the same time, I see the baby I
cherished so, so much. The waves agree, shifting
your message. I WAS HE.
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