The mid-afternoon sun is hazy today, which gives the day an orangey glow. The park is on top of a hill. I can see a river and hills beyond. Looking at the view, seeing over the trees, I feel freer, like I have more room to breathe.
Son has the sandbox at the park all to himself. He’s right in the middle of it, excavating and building sandcastles quietly, totally absorbed in the task. Grandma and I are sitting with Daughter on one side of the sandbox. Daughter is content, sucking on her bib, watching Son play.
We start talking about a boy who threw sand in Son’s face. Son asks Grandma for a story about when someone was mean to her.
Grandma tells Son a story from when she was about his age. She had a friend who was sometimes mean and sometimes nice, and one day she walked home from the girl’s house and the girl tried to stop her.
I think of Grandma at Son’s age, and how just a little turn of the dial made her my mother, and another turn, Son’s grandmother. I think how similar we all are, despite our apparent differences, wandering in this wilderness, trying to figure out what it all means.
Son goes back to playing, Grandma cuddles Daughter close, and we sit together some more.