> > A Moment Can Last Forever > By Graham Porter > > Loading the car with the paraphernalia of our > youngsters, ages three to nine, was hardly my idea of fun. > But precisely on schedule - and at a very early hour - I > had performed that miracle. With our vacation stay on Lake > Michigan now over, I hurried back into the cottage to find > my wife Evie sweeping the last of the sand from the floor. > "It's six-thirty - time to leave," I said. "Where are > the kids?" > Evie put away the broom. "I let them run down to the > beach for one last look." > I shook my head, annoyed by this encroachment on my > carefully planned schedule. Why had we bothered to rise at > dawn if we weren't to get rolling before the worst of the > traffic hit? After all, the children had already spent two > carefree weeks building sand castles and ambling for miles > along the lakeside in search of magic rocks. And today > they had only to relax in the car - sleep if they liked - > while I alone fought the long road home. > I strode across the porch and out the screen door. > There, down past the rolling dunes, I spotted my four > youngsters on the beach. They had discarded their shoes > and were tiptoeing into the water, laughing and leaping > each time a wave broke over their legs, the point obviously > being to see how far into the lake they could wade without > drenching their clothes. It only riled me more to realize > that all their dry garments were locked, heaven knew where, > in the overstuffed car trunk. > With the firmness of a master sergeant, I cupped my > hands to my mouth to order my children up to the car at > once. But somehow the scolding words stopped short of my > lips. The sun, still low in the morning sky, etched a gold > silhouette around each of the four young figures at play. > For them there was left only this tiny fragment of time for > draining the last drop of joy from the sun and the water > and the sky. > The longer I watched, the more the scene before me > assumed a magic aura, for it would never be duplicated > again. What changes might we expect in our lives after the > passing of another year, another ten years? The only > reality was this moment, this glistening beach and these > children - my children - with the sunlight trapped in their > hair and the sound of their laughter mixing with the wind > and the waves. > 'Why,' I asked myself, 'had I been so intent on > leaving at six-thirty that I had rushed from the cottage to > scold them?' Did I have constructive discipline in mind, > or was I simply in the mood to nag because a long day's > drive lay ahead? After all, no prizes were to be won by > leaving precisely on the dot. If we arrived at our motel > an hour later than planned, no forty-piece band was going > to be kept waiting. And how could I hope to maintain > communication with my children, now and in later years, if > I failed to keep my own youthful memory alive? > At the water's edge far below, my oldest daughter was > motioning for me to join them. Then the others began > waving, too, calling for Evie and me to share their fun. I > hesitated for only a moment, then ran to the cottage to > grab my wife's hand. Half running, half sliding down the > dunes, we were soon at the beach, kicking off our shoes. > With gleeful bravado, we waded far out past our youngsters, > Evie holding up her skirt and I my trouser cuffs, until > Evie's foot slipped and she plunged squealing into the > water, purposely dragging me with her. > Today, years later, my heart still warms to recall our > young children's laughter that day - how full-bellied and > gloriously companionable it was. And not infrequently, > when they air their fondest memories, those few long-ago > moments - all but denied them - are among their most > precious. > «:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«^i^MISSI ^i^«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§« Richiele Marie [email protected] (Missi) I disbelieved in reincarnation in my last life, too. »§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«