we went to the water.

to go to the ocean. it's been my longing since francis swam in the ocean of my belly. i needed to be near to it. i needed to fill my lungs with its air.

and so we went. my brimmed bonneted boy and i rode an empty train to the very last stop in search of the sea and the salty breeze. on the way, we stopped in park slope for a sandwich wrapped in paper at the sort of shop that slices cheese on marble and displays fresh meringue at the counter. we strolled over the rickety wooden boardwalk and across the beach to fan out a towel and nurse in the sunshine and feel the sand on our toes. we wore sweaters. i finished an article in the new yorker. francis practiced tummy time and chirped at the birds and flirted with his mother. when we'd had our fill, we rode the same train home and slept the slumber of two who have lived a day out of doors, a day good and soft and full.

and that is the tale of how francis brown came to meet the ocean on a golden monday in april as the sun was highest in the sky.