Noah stopped where the sand began.
For a second, he seemed both nine years old and ninety.
“This is where Dad built the dragon wall,” he said.
I followed his eyes toward the damp sand near the waterline.
The previous summer, that part of the beach had belonged to Noah and Simon.
Other fathers threw footballs or napped beneath umbrellas. Simon created sand kingdoms.
He pressed wet sand into buckets, carved tiny windows with popsicle sticks, and let Noah choose whether each castle needed a moat, a prison, or a bakery.
“Every kingdom needs bread,” Noah had told him once.
Simon had given a solemn nod. “Then we build the bakery first.”
Last October, a beam fell at a construction site.
That was the phrase everyone used because it was easier than saying my husband went to work carrying coffee in a travel mug and never returned.
For months, Noah spoke barely louder than a whisper.
