There are places that shape us, memories that linger long after the last sunset fades into the horizon. For me, that place was the beach—the same one I returned to every Memorial Day weekend for three days, every year, without fail. It wasn’t just a getaway; it was a second family, an extension of who we were.
It started when I was seven. Grandma, my sisters, and I would pack up our bags with all the essentials: swimsuits, flip-flops, sunblock that smelled like coconut, and a whole lot of excitement. The moment we arrived, it was like stepping into another world—a world where time stretched lazily, laughter echoed across the water, and joy felt effortless.
Days were spent in the pool, where we would play until our fingertips shriveled, daring each other to underwater handstands or racing from one end to the other. The pool was our playground, our little escape, a place where we invented games that only made sense to us.
Evenings had a rhythm of their own. At sunset, we’d walk to the beach, the sand cooling beneath our feet as the sky transformed into a masterpiece of purples and golds. The waves rolled in, steady and soothing, a soundtrack to our quiet conversations and uncontrollable laughter.
Dinner was a feast—grilling by the water, swapping stories, staying up later than we ever would at home. It was a time for talking, reminiscing, and simply being together. And somehow, every year, the magic was the same.
The last time we went was in 2017. I didn’t know then that it would be the last. That’s the funny thing about memories—you never realize when you’re making the last one. Now, every Memorial Day weekend, I feel the pull of nostalgia, the ache of missing something that once felt so permanent.
But maybe that’s the beauty of it. The beach is still there. The sunsets still paint the sky. And no matter how much time passes, those three-day weekends will always be a part of me, tucked away like seashells collected along the shore.
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