In October 2018, my mom, my husband, our two children and I drove to Savannah, Georgia, to celebrate my fortieth birthday.
I finally had a job that offered paid time off, so I wanted to travel.
“What better time to check out Tybee Island Beach than fall, when it’s cold enough to keep sunbathers away,” I suggested.
The truth was I hated sand, especially when its coarse grains wedged between my toes and the sun scalded my skin and burned my eyes, but I appreciated the power of water touching earth. At least, briefly.
Our oldest was only seven, but she and her five-year-old brother had already traveled many times to nearby states.
The drive to the Georgia coast took four or five hours. The next morning, the five of us wandered along River Street, sightseeing as I made photographs of the way everything looked to me.
“Pictures are free!” I reminded everyone.
I would have preferred feeling the planet’s second largest body of water lapping at my toes in the evening, but we didn’t have the luxury of time, so we spent an hour or two at the beach in the afternoon.
“Make sure you can reach Daddy’s hand,” I called out as my babies crawled toward the white-tipped waves.
I pressed the camera shutter button on my iPhone, then moved in for a hug and to check each child’s balance.
Neither knew how to swim.
“If you fall under the wave, just stand up,” I said more confidently than I felt. “Stick your toes into the squishy, wet sand,” I said, suppressing my fear of failure to keep them alive.
I reminded myself to breathe.
We make memories this way. One experience at a time. One life at a time.
I watched Mom hunting seashells with the kids on the way back to the car.
“I found a nickel!” Mom shouted excitedly as she pulled the coin from the sand.
At home, I printed my favorite photograph of the kids in the tide and bought a five-dollar frame in a blue that complemented the ocean.
We glued on the shells and the nickel.
That memory was the souvenir I wanted.