He pressed wet sand into buckets, carved tiny windows with popsicle sticks, and let Noah choose whether each castle needed a moat, a prison, or a bakery.
“Every kingdom needs bread,” Noah had told him once.
Simon had given a solemn nod. “Then we build the bakery first.”
Last October, a beam fell at a construction site.
That was the phrase everyone used because it was easier than saying my husband went to work carrying coffee in a travel mug and never returned.
For months, Noah spoke barely louder than a whisper.
Then one evening in June, he discovered the small flag inside Simon’s old tackle box.
“Mom,” he asked, gripping the wooden stick, “do you think Dad can still see the sandcastles I build for him?”
I turned my face away before answering.
Not because I had no idea what to say.
Because I knew precisely what he needed to hear.
“Yes, baby,” I told him. “I think he sees them.”
So we returned.
Noah selected a place where the sand was wet enough to hold its form but distant enough from the waves to last for a while.
For a while.
That mattered to me.
It had never mattered to Simon.
Noah worked for three hours.
He began with a broad wall, smoothing every section with Simon’s old blue shovel.
Then he added the towers—four at the corners and one in the middle.
He collected shells for windows and carved a trench around the outside using both heels.
I helped whenever he asked.
Most of the time, I simply watched.
Now and then, Noah’s expression shifted in small ways.
He was not quite smiling.
He was remembering how.
He pushed a broken shell into the entrance and stepped backward.
“Dad would say the front needs guards.”
“Crab guards.”
“Terrifying.”
He nearly laughed.
Nearly.
