The Beach

My parents met at the University of South Carolina when my mother was a freshman there.  Her friend, Whit, invited my mother to go with her to Pawleys Island.  My father tagged along and later when they got married they agreed to go to the beach at least once every year.  So after they got married they started going to Myrtle Beach, South Carolina for a week every year.  Later after they had children they continued the tradition.  This year marks 65 years that my family has been going to "the beach" for the family vacation.  After a few years Myrtle Beach got too big with high rises and they moved the vacation to North Myrtle Beach, SC.   For about the past 15 years we have been going to Cherry Grove Beach in North Myrtle Beach.  Sometimes at the beach we have entertainment night.  For entertainment night this year I wrote this original poem:

And Still They Come

Young lovers on Pauleys Island, a Charleston Beach

He lies on the sand under the stars dreaming how later her hand in marriage he will beseech

Married now and she with a son near

They vow to return to this beach or some beach at least once every year

Like the wide plateau of the sea

Their family expands as though it will never cease

Little ant-infested cabins with salt-infused water like Haul Haven

Are replaced with high rises up and down the coast 

Ha ha ha of the Laughing Gulls mocking the passage of time like a cackling boast

The sky turmeric with the setting sun marks time slipping past

Soon one leads to ten; it all happens so fast

Still they come

January brings a rare snow inland where they usually reside

Not too early for a young girl to cram a grocery bag full of shorts and shirts in anticipation of the annual trip to the tide

A trip that takes on enormous proportions

For the year hastes away in fractional contortions

Already the car is packed with kids and her nose pressed against the Barracuda's glass

Her sister's sweaty thigh pressed against her ass

"Don't touch me!" Useless to say in the exploding confines of a car meant for six but kids piled in like hay

 A blue boat sails over the glass and blots out the sun cooking her like toast

Soon it's returned to its place and they are on their way again to the coast

To the coast and still they come

The little cottages disappearing

The growing family moves farther and farther into the clearing

Til finally they are bunched up at the border

And still there is no order

Always chaos 

Chairs flipped over, papers snatched, children pounce

Yet not one of them would trade any of it for a billion or an ounce

As way leads on to way they might never pass this way in years to come

And yet a mother's wish that they return and their own hurricane desires assures that for one week every year forever more a beach in South Carolina will be their home

 And still they come

by Michelle Brodie