The Sandcastle

A girl kneels in the sand. Her pupils are dilated in concentration. She breathes in and out heavily in time with the waves. The wind whips her dark hair around wildly. Her hands tremble as she smooths the side of sand castle in front of her. With this latest modification, she shifts her weight back and her toes squish into the wet sand. Her head tilts slightly to the side and she begins to chew on her bottom lip. Whether her lips are red due to the nervous chewing or hours in the sun or a recent indulgence in a cherry popsicle is unclear. What is clear is how much this matters to her. She is the creator. She is in control. This is her world.

This world of hers is fragile, though. Her castle has been kicked down by giggling children. It has been ridiculed and judged by beach-goers and altered greatly by friends "just trying to help." Even the girl herself has destroyed her creation again and again in bursts of frustration or despair. She thinks, now, she is getting closer to success. She has found an isolated cove. Her castle is uniquely hers. She has worked so hard with no help. Hard work pays off, right? But, in her desperate focus, she hasn't noticed the waves creeping closer and closer. With a sudden roar, the water collides with the castle and steals a large chunk of it away without even a simple apology. The girl scrambles over to the washed-away corner, throwing her small body between her castle and the great, big ocean. Another wave attacks her body, its roar sounding like a mocking laugh. Her raw lips sting with the combined salt of the water and her tears.

"I told you that you should have built it up here," her father's voice calls out from up the beach. "Making things difficult for yourself. You should have let your mom help." The girl glances up to meet her mother's eyes. The sadness that rests in those blue eyes rocks her like another wave. The girl wonders if she is more disappointed in her daughter's failure or in the distance between them. Looking away, the girl pushes the wet hair out of her face and sets back to work, piling the sand back up.

"Did that big wave just get your castle?" A voice says behind her.

The girl jumps, startled by the intrusion. She turns to see a boy in orange swim trunks. He is holding a metal pail and studying the pile of sand in front of her with interest.

"I don't need your help," she states, resolutely.

"Okay," he replies. He continues to stare. "What are you building?"

The girl stands up and turns toward him. She is ready to get defensive, to protect what is hers, but words won't come to her lips. She feels the stiffness in her legs and the rawness of her lips. Her vision is hazy. She looks back at her castle and suddenly can't remember why she started it. The grip of determination releases her and she feels unsteady.

"I don't know what I'm building." The sun catches her brown eyes. The boy can see panic in them.

"I think that's the hardest part," he says, "deciding what to build."

The girl swallows, trying to hold back more tears, "What are you building then?"

"Me? Nothing yet. I'm just collecting things."

He holds out the pail to the girl and she sees that is seems to be filled with an assortment of rocks and shells and sticks.

"I'm going to build something really, really amazing someday. It's going to be huge!" the boy talks quickly with excitement, "but I've got to collect all the parts first. It's even gonna have clock tower."

The boy digs through the metal pail and pulls an old, broken watch from the bottom to show the girl. He continues talking, "I'm going to make a sidewalk and a moat and 5 towers. And I'm watching for all the good places with the best sand too."

The joy in the boy's description makes the girl forget her tears. She grabs her own plastic pail and shovel from near the remains of her castle. She starts walking in the direction of her parents and the boy follows. "Maybe I'll start collecting too," she says, "My mom is really good at finding the best seashells. First, tell me...why 5 towers? Why not 10?"