Pocketful of Sand

Of course, I got no answers, which only left me more frustrated. So, Emmy and I decided to go for a jaunt outside.

I bundle her up with a hoodie over her sweatshirt before we strike out on the short walk to the beach. I wanted her to wear gloves, but she loves the feel of the sand and since I won’t let her go barefoot, we compromised by me carrying her gloves in my pocket. She might need them before the day is out.

“Can we build a sandcastle today?”

“Not today. It’s too cold. The water might turn you into an Emmy-sized ice cube and what would I do with that?”

She giggles. “You can’t put me in your drink. I’d drown.”

I smile. “Yes, you’d drown if I put you in a drink, so let’s save the sandcastle until it’s warmer, k, doodle bug?”

“Okay.” She doesn’t seem overly disappointed.

On the beach, Emmy chases the waves in and out, but not as long as usual since she can’t get her feet wet. She picks up some wet sand and throws it into the surf a few times, but that doesn’t last long either. Within twenty minutes, she’s running up to me so we can go for our walk.

“Can we walk now, Momma?”

“Sure,” I tell her. “Let me check your hands.”

Obediently, she lays her fingers in mine so that I can feel the temperature. They’re freezing.

“Time for gloves.” I take them from my pocket and hold them out for her to shove her tiny hands into. She flexes her fingers several times until the knit fits just right. I touch her nose and her ears next. “Let’s put your hood up, too. Your ears are cold.”

“Mooom!” she whines. I know she’s not happy when she calls me Mom.

“Don’t ‘Mom’ me. It’s hood up or head for home.”

With moody eyes locked onto mine, she pulls up her hood and hands me the strings to tie under her chin.

“Thank you.”

We start off down the beach, Emmy shooting up ahead into the empty straight stretch. She runs as fast as her little legs will carry her on the hard-packed sand.

I think we both see the castle at about the same time. I’m thankful that Emmy slows so I can catch up to her and stop her before she gets too close.

“He’s building another castle, Momma,” she says, excitement widening her eyes when Cole’s head appears on the other side of the structure. “And there’s more flowers!”

She starts to walk on, but I stop her. “Maybe he likes to do this without people watching, Em. Let’s let him build this one and we can come back over tomorrow to see it when it’s all finished. How about that?”

“But he has flowers,” she argues woefully, pointing at the bunch of daisies buried in the sand. “And he gave me one last time.”

“I know, baby, but I think he likes to leave them there for someone special.”

I wonder if this has something to do with his dead daughter. It’s obvious that his castling is more than just a pastime. Even from this distance, I can see how red and angry his strong hands look. I can only imagine how cold they must be working the wet sand on this chilly, windy day. Yet he has been here for who knows how long, building another castle.

It’s every bit as elaborate as the first one we saw. Maybe even more so. Why does he do it? Who does he build them for?

Emmy must be wondering the same things because she starts asking questions as I tug her around to start back the way we came.

“Who does he leave the flowers for, Momma?”

“I don’t know, sweetie, but I bet they’re for someone very special to him.”

A thoughtful pause.

“Where’s his little girl?”

I slant a look her way, to her wise green eyes staring up at me. She’s growing up so fast. Tears blur my vision as I catalog every detail of this moment–Emmy’s rosy cheeks, strands of her dark hair peeking out around her hood, her gloved little fingers squeezing mine. She’s my reason for living. She has been since the day she was born. Everything I’ve ever done has been for her. I can’t imagine my life if she weren’t a part of it. I don’t even want to.

“What makes you think he has a little girl?”

She shrugs, not answering my question. She’s very perceptive, but still, I can’t help wondering what brought her to this conclusion. “Does he?”

“Not anymore.”

“What happened to her?”

“I don’t know.”

“Is she in heaven?”

“I think so.”

She falls quiet for several minutes as we walk, her fingers firmly clutching mine. When she finally speaks again, her words break my heart.

“Some babies aren’t meant to stay down here with their mommas. And their daddies. Some babies are angels. And angels are meant to be in heaven.”

She’s not asking me. She’s telling me, as though she’s the mature one trying to so delicately explain it to me. Like she’s helping me to understand.

“Maybe they are, sweetie.”

“Some of them are only ‘posed to be here for a little while and then go away.”

“Maybe they are.”

I wonder at her train of thought, at how she’s justifying the death of a child in her head. I don’t know at what age most kids are able to really understand death, but Emmy has enough issues to work out right now. I don’t want to add more stressors by over-explaining senseless tragedy.