I took off running with my cousins toward the ocean. It was late in the evening. The sun had set. The last bit of light was hanging on over the beach. I had been cooped up with my dad, uncle, grandmother, and sister for the trek from Kentucky to Myrtle Beach. I’m not sure how long the drive took back then, but it felt like approximately 3 full days.
I was 11 years old. It was the first time I had ever seen the ocean.
I hate that I don’t remember many details about this trip. I remember my uncle’s spaghetti sauce one evening. I remember sleeping on a slice of the floor in one of the bedrooms. I remember learning how to play blackjack.
I remember the odd compliment my Aunt Rita gave me about my tan going all the way down my fingertips. Sometimes I look down at my fingers during the summer and think about my late aunt, a beautiful soul gone too soon.
I remember my mamaw looking over the room with all my cousins and all my aunts and uncles, “I guess I’m responsible for all this.”
I don’t have many specific memories from the trip. I have a vague memory of being stuck in traffic on the way home. Like the kind of traffic where your uncle gets out of the vehicle and makes friends with the gentleman in the next car over. I don’t remember much more than that.
But I do remember that feeling. The feeling of being in awe of the ocean. Feeling the wind and mist hitting my face, the sand under my feet. The feeling of being with my family. Cherry Grove might as well have been heaven.
I’ve come to realize I’ve forgotten more moments from my life than I remember. But even the days I can no longer recall have helped make me, well, me. I’m sure as I get older, the memories will fade even more. But the feelings, and the forming, they will always be a part of who I am. Somewhere within me, there’s still an 11-year-old running toward the sea.