I believed taking Noah back to the beach might help him feel near his late father again. Then a woman kicked his sandcastle into the surf, and twenty minutes later, a lifeguard gave her a golden box that made everyone on the shore realize what she had truly destroyed that day.
Noah kept the tiny American flag in his pocket the entire morning.
Not in his backpack.
Not inside the beach bag.
His pocket.
Every few minutes, his hand drifted down to make sure it was still there, the way someone checks for a house key before closing a locked door.
“You okay, Bug?” I asked.
He nodded without meeting my eyes.
—
The beach stretched before us, bright and noisy beneath the Fourth of July sun.
Children raced toward the ocean.
Umbrellas popped open.
Someone’s portable speaker played a song Simon used to complain about, even though he always hummed it when he thought no one noticed.
