Then one evening in June, he discovered the small flag inside Simon’s old tackle box.
“Mom,” he asked, gripping the wooden stick, “do you think Dad can still see the sandcastles I build for him?”
I turned my face away before answering.
Not because I had no idea what to say.
Because I knew precisely what he needed to hear.
“Yes, baby,” I told him. “I think he sees them.”
So we returned.
Noah selected a place where the sand was wet enough to hold its form but distant enough from the waves to last for a while.
For a while.
That mattered to me.
It had never mattered to Simon.
Noah worked for three hours.
He began with a broad wall, smoothing every section with Simon’s old blue shovel.
Then he added the towers—four at the corners and one in the middle.
He collected shells for windows and carved a trench around the outside using both heels.