He Was Always Getting Lost

My younger brother races me down the dune, a streak of sand, ahead of me by a running start. I chase his oversized white T-shirt and red mesh shorts, at least I think they were red. It is hard to remember his outfit once he goes missing. Are his sandals also lost?He runs the wake of the frigid Pacific, but I dig my stubborn feet in the wet sand. The shell grit and pebbles massage our numb toes, him splashing, me standing still. Our footprints are swept away by the incoming tide.

Later, I build sandcastle towers, pasting roughly collected roots with wet sand to stay upright beside the yielding moat. My brother doesn’t remain at our special spot in the sand. He’s gone climbing, his shouts matching the squawking seagulls, gliding above, scavenging for a forgotten bag of Cheetos. He probably sees the sheer cliffs of the Cape as a dare. The wind annoys me, blowing hair in my face. I retreat inside my sweatshirt hood. I am almost finished building a home of broken-shelled windows before I realize that he is gone. His voice is only the wind.

Later, as I clasp our mother’s hand, walking up and down the beach, searching for him, my fears lie bare as the abandoned bucket of beach toys. I call his name, urging him: Just find the jutted rocks that form an ocean lookout. 

Once our dad drops me off at our campsite, I am taut like the bright yellow insides of the staked tent. He leaves me alone and goes back out to keep searching. I am enclosed by zippered nylon, frozen in place by time stretched thin. I still hear the seagulls wailing. I still have sand between my toes. Our dad will sweep the tent clean with his miniature brush before he unstakes it and packs it away. I count four sleeping bags and four pillows. Always four. The ATV crunches the gravel and spruce needles as it arrives at our campsite. I stretch my ears to hear if it is my brother’s slender wings touching down for a landing.