A chaise lounge dominates the photo. In it a woman - my mother - reclines. Mom is spread out in the chair like thick, sweet frosting on a cake. Languid, her arms raised above her head, her legs splayed, pant legs rolled up to expose a goodly length of pale skin. Her arms are bare, the undersides pasty in comparison to the tops. Her smile in repose is tender, sweet, unassuming, and peaceful.
To my knowledge, Mom never owned a bathing suit. I don’t recall ever seeing her step into the lake, and never before had she sunbathed. That day, however, was different. It was as if all her cares had floated out to deep waters like the unattended beach ball had done just minutes before.
We are a large family. When my siblings and I were young, Dad was the one who took us to the beach. He sat in the car and watched as we frolicked in the shallows. Mom stayed home to ensure we had a hot meal when we returned. Perhaps Mom was happy for the few moments of alone time at home in the kitchen, as was Dad, alone in the car.
On this day, their grown children, with children of our own, treat them to dinner on the beach. Dad fishes off the dock, never swaying from his pleasantries. And, for once, Mom forgets about making dinner.
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