Sunday
By Rebecca S., Phoenix, AZ
Sunday we watch the tourists
From a safe distance on the deck
They arrive early: survey, plot and storm the beaches
(“Like D-Day,” you mumble, thumbing through the magazine section
With just the slightest hint of resentment.)
At lunchtime come the Igloo coolers
Then beach balls, dragon kites
Soaring too high
A boom box plays “Surfin’ USA”
As the crashing waves become background
To something more appropriately catchy
(“Somewhere Brian Wilson weeps,” you say, to nobody particular.)
Next there are the plastic pails
Beginning the search for seashells, sand dollars, starfish
(“If they wanted souvenirs, they should have gone to Disneyland.”)
Kids in highly unnecessary wetsuits
Sprint to show their newfound treasures
To the bored parents underneath the umbrellas
Last is the obligatory sand castle
As the dads with digital cameras take too many pictures
And even the youngest kids can’t hide how insulted they are
When the sand and wind won’t cooperate with their plans
For a castle-slash-mall-slash-spaceship
Complete with ample parking spaces
In a three-tier sand garage
The clouds glisten over Point Loma
As they load up the SUV
Soda cans and candy wrappers
Left lying as fair payment for the shells
The kids are told they can add the football stadium
To the castle tomorrow
“It’s not like it’s going anywhere,” they’re promised
Willingly coaxed into the car
(“These people have a lot to learn about tides,” you say.)
A strong wind whizzes off the sliding waves
As we fold up the paper and head inside.
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