by Susan Triemert
Next year when we find out Dad has moved in with his ‘twin family’, our late afternoon picnic will be recalled as if we’re watching it through the breath of a campfire. The fiery fumes tilt and blur that shoreline air. Damp, with salt-twisted hair, we pile onto a yard sale blanket. Huddled together to block out wayward wind and swept-up sand, we nibble on saltines. Soon enough that briny breeze will help lick away our tears. But, for now, when Dad lays his spongy curls on Mom’s lap, she kisses his forehead and calls him a sea monster.