What was once seemed completely permanent has long since been swept away. Pushed out to white-capped depths by summers that felt so busy but whose importance I can’t quite recall. Through all of that life it took too long, but now we are back.

Not all of us, though. Parents left first and then grandparents; not the way things were supposed to go. Through all the fun runs a somber thread. Our time together will can’t help but be a sort of memorial service, informally at least. This one, though, is more formal. There are ashes to scatter and hugs to give and things we don’t quite know how to say. I think we do admirably and anyway there is no one here to notice but the waves and sun who must remember us when this was only a joyous place.

Yes August was always spent at the beach, in the company of cousins like siblings. Warm sun and cool air on the cusp of seasons. At the beach we lived on the frontier of possibility: staying out past bedtime to play kick the can; making the three-hour drive alone, in cars we bought ourselves; drinking Corona at 19.

The Corona tastes different now. After all, we bought it ourselves. And other things have changed now too. There are clients’ emails and children of our own. Golf, without Grandpa’s encouragement, has become our sport. No one will sell us a whiffleball set. The runs to Rudee Inlet are fine, but the route back seems longer. And then it rains. The thunderstorms roll in and the water comes down. The waves wash out, and, by now, everything is changed. Though, on certain August days, when you get just the right amount of sunburn, everything is exactly the same.