by Amy L. Hatch
“How many more days until we get to go to Cape Cod, Mom?” she asked.
We were curled up in her bed, a pair of commas on pink pony sheets. Her legs kicked against mine gently, as if she were trying to will the time to go faster with her own two feet.
We leave for the East in just a few days.
Nearly every summer since the year I turned 8, I’ve crossed the Sagamore Bridge from mainland Massachusetts to the Cape Cod peninsula. I counted this week; I’ve missed only four summers there in the past 31 years.
Photo by Amy L. Hatch
Now, that summer tradition is part of my children’s lives. They know that when the sun gets hot-hot-hot here in Chambana that soon we’ll be at the ocean, waves licking at our feet and the breeze lifting the hair from our necks.
It isn’t easy to get there, especially from here. We need a car when we’re there, and so we drive.
And drive.
And drive some more, nearly to the end of the world.
It takes three days — two days in the car and a break in between — to get there. It takes a lot of packing and a lot of patience, especially for two small people under the age of 6. They have to sit for a long time, legs swinging in anticipation of the freedom to run.
It takes work to get there. We make accommodations, take time off. We fit work in where we can, so as not to jeopardize the progress we’re making with our careers. We adjust schedules and let routines go adrift, loose from the moorings of ordinary time.
But these are the days that they will remember, as I do. They will remember the ice cream cones at 9 o’ clock, as the sun sets and running with their long-legged cousins in the tall grass behind the house my late father started, and that my mother, then a new widow, finished.
They will run their hands over the etched stone that faces the water on the terrace. It reads, “For the love of Gil,” for my father. In some ways, when we’re there, he’s still with us.
This is what it means to make rituals for our children, even when it’s hard. It makes meaning of the meaningless, it binds us together in ways that our busy lives can’t.
And that’s why, for two weeks every year, we stop time and we watch the waves roll in.
No related posts.
Beautiful, as always. And if I can some summer, I’m totally taking you up on the offer to come with! Actually, let’s make it a date for next summer:)
I spent several summers in Chatham with my grandmother, she always rented a house for the month of July. Great memories there, wish I could continue the tradition with my family.
I love this: “This is what it means to make rituals for our children, even when it’s hard. It makes meaning of the meaningless, it binds us together in ways that our busy lives can’t.”
Thanks for the reminder that while making these rituals happen can be costly in a variety of ways, it’s so very worth it.
Timely reminder, beautifully written. Thanks.