Dear Reese,
We picnic at Troup Park in the evening. MorMor meets us there with sandwiches and fresh cookies, and a foldable outdoor highchair so you can sit at the head of the picnic table.
Afterwards, you crawl around in the grass and the sand. I take you down to the water and put your feet in, and then you crawl in yourself and sit there in the shallows, smearing wet sand onto your face.
MorMor says this is what she imagines for our summer. The water is clear and still as we look out at the bay. We have the beach to ourselves. You sit in the place where MorMor spent her summers. In the same spot I vacationed. Living here, just five minutes up the road, is exactly what I wanted for you.
The true sign of summer is when we leave — there is wet sand all over both of us.
Love,
Mama