Hills And Valleys

I’m not used to the hills.

The car swoops along the road, the wheel sliding beneath my fingers as we rise and fall, rise and fall. A wall of tall green pine trees surrounds us on either side, sun winking at us from behind the regal, weathered limbs.

My daughter laughs from the backseat: Weeee! It’s like a roller coaster, Mama! The baby murmurs and gurgles back at her. Mamamamamamamamaaaa …

The three of us hurtle down the winding road that takes us to the sea. Climbing the dunes is hard with The Babyman. He rides high on my hip, white hat with green trim falling over one blue eye. He lunges forward, pulled by the ocean. He hears it before we crest the hill, and he turns his face to the sound of surf hitting the sand.

I huff and I puff and then finally, we are at the apex.

Before us is the ocean. So clear this year, the water is, more clear than I’ve seen it in 20 years. There is no red tide, no seaweed to impede us. The Babyman squirms out of my grasp and hits the hot sand, adjusting his gait to this new, strange terrain.

Ahead of him rushes his sister, giggles following her in the wind. Together we brave the cold water, letting it lick our toes, embrace our calves with its stinging needles.

Up and down, up and down. These days are filled with peaks and valleys, a topography that suddenly feels strange to me. Slowly, as the days pass, something in me is set loose. Something hard dislodges, and floats out to sea.

The view from the summit is stunning.

Photos by my sister