When we go there, I can sit on my a** without guilt. The giant sandbox. The beach. Within minutes of where we live, there are a dozen more of them than there are playgrounds — most often deserted and easily a dozen times better.
That’s why you're seeing the same scene played out on Flickr again. And again. And again. It’s what we do. We go to the beach with a picnic and we pile sticks, collect shells and pop dried-up seaweed.
And sometimes we just sit. I Sit, he declares, plopping himself next to me in solidarity. It’s like he knows I haven’t got it in me to run circles with him, and he’s forgiving me for it. It’s okay mama, I just sit. We sit together and we watch the lobster boats, and I dig, and you tell me about whales and pirates and treasure.
After a bleak winter the sky is pure brilliance, blown squeaky clean by the wind, humming with colour and possibility. My camera has leapt back to life. I can’t get enough of that blue. Can you?
He is occupied, and I am still. Pure perfection.