Simon constructed office buildings. Parking structures. Bridges. He believed in measurements, regulations, and foundations.
Things designed to endure.
Captain Reyes glanced toward the ruined patch of sand beside the water.
“Every afternoon, the tide took them.”
Noah ran a finger along the photograph’s edge.
“Was he mad?”
The lifeguard gave a small smile.
That response appeared to trouble Noah.
“Why not?”
Captain Reyes looked briefly at me before returning his attention to my son.
“Your dad used to say, ‘If my kid only learns how to build things that last, he’ll miss half the beautiful things in life.’”
Gradually, the sounds of the beach rose around us again.
The waves.
The children.
A gull squawking near someone’s bag of chips.
I looked toward the flattened castle.
Then memories came back.
The pumpkins Simon carved even though they spoiled within days.
The blanket forts he assembled and tore down before bedtime.
The kites that snapped.
The flowers he planted while knowing winter would kill them.
I had assumed they were simply joyful things.
Perhaps they had also been lessons.
