Rachel Allord

New Year’s Eve and delayed planes,
throw up and expired kids.
Airline workers who promise the moon
and hand you a pebble.
Honorable workers who rent cars at 3 am.
Missed turns
and surprise tolls
on unknown roads, scramble for quarters.
Flashing lights and sirens (I swear they were quarters!)
We’re here. Grandma’s condo.
5 am.
Dig out air mattresses, inflate in kitchen so as not to wake the baby.
Sleep for a spell.
But the ocean!
Unwavering, wonderful, fearful ocean
reflecting its maker.
All is well, all was worth it.
Sand,
shrimp,
shrimp,
and more shrimp.
And sun
glorious, glorious sun on bare feet, bare shoulders.
Long sandy walks by day
twirling by the ocean under the moonlight
with your daughter
by night.
Cash in points to pay homage
to The Mouse.
Push frugality to its limits:
how many meals can we squeeze into this fridge?
(A few)
How many times can we reuse these water bottles?
(Countless times. And no, we’re not getting pop)
Wait wait wait
in line for this bus, that ride
to scream
laugh
try to breathe
next to screaming laughing teenage son.
Games played
and oranges sucked
and books read
and naps taken
and prayers prayed
and worship given
and monorails ridden.
I Love Yous spoken
and also Shut Ups,
kindness and unkindness exchanged and exchanged
for we are human,
and family at that.
Give me a little space please and
Come closer, closer,
because this childhood thing is ending
fast
too fast,
just like this vacation.
Denial is futile,
time to head home.
To ice and snow and long underwear and memories and thankfulness and laundry
and reality.

Thank you Lord, giver of all good gifts: oceans and sand and shrimp and families and plans that don’t go as planned, mercifully reminding us who’s running the show.