It's an old photograph with bad composition and lousy color. The edges are curled up and brown. But none of that matters. The photo is laced with poignant1 memories so vivid that when my gaze slides across it, tears prick2 at the backs of my eyes. I am immediately transported to a place where only good and beautiful images can be found, a place where life revolves3 around lazy afternoons spent on the beach. In this magical place mothers share secrets with daughters, and grandchildren glean4 immeasurable bits of wisdom from the cadence5 of the waves and the soft tones of the women they love.
A mere6 moment of our lives, tucked neatly7 into a small rectangle and preserved forever - years before anything bad came calling.
In the photo, the beach spreads out on either side, a fishing dock to the left, one of Calcite's great limestone8 boats far out on the horizon, and on the right, miles and miles of undisturbed beach. The photo is alive with children and women: mothers, sisters, sons and daughters, nieces and nephews, grandchildren. The lone9 man in the photo is my father. His shadow stretches long and lean across the restless blue waters of Lake Huron. With immense patience, he casts his line, again and again. My toddler son, his blond curls bleached10 white, peers across the endless stretch of sand. Mesmerized11 by his grandfather, he jets down the wet beach as fast as his chubby12 legs can carry him. His sisters give chase.
A million dancing whitecaps become myriad13 diamonds, straining to outshine one another. The glimmering14 trail sparkles on the vast and seemingly endless body of water that starts at my fe
