by Cinelle Ariola Barnes
My husband always tells me that I am strong. Apparently, it is partly why he married me. He thinks that there is an unwavering soundness to my soul, and he reminds me of that each day – on both calm and stormy ones. Sometimes I challenge him, dare him, to put his finger on that which makes me so. And every time, he says, “I can't quite pin-point it, but it is there. It's just something and it is there.”
I never understood. For the six years we've known each other, I've staunchly refused to see the opposite of my frailty.
On a warm July day this past summer, my back tanned in the Carolina sun and my legs lay comfortably on salt-and-pepper sand. My toes just touched the hem of the sea; it was warm, like bath water. In my hand was an Anne Lammott book. I had no real intentions of reading it. I sat, feeling blessed by the chance to read. My husband built a sandcastle for our daughter, but she didn't care because she was only eight months old. Instead, she raked the sand with her dainty fingers and ate it. Every twenty minutes or so, my husband checked back in with me, for a drink fresh from our monogrammed cooler, or a reapplication of sunscreen.
This was normal protocol for family day in Sullivan's Island. This is what we do there – on Saturdays, Sundays, Church days, lazy Tuesdays and on days when friends or family visit. It is our lather-rinse-repeat. Our very own ritual, the one that never gets old. It is our stay-cation itinerary, the one that allows us to vacate our life while still playing in our own backyard. We go there often, no matter the weather. This casual, unhurried beach captivates us. It is no tropical paradise but, to borrow my husband's words, there is something there. Strength, I think, is what he calls it.
