life's a beach

My childhood beach trips involved dozens of loud relatives, an old minivan with ripped leather seats, soggy pork rolls, homemade sticky rice, cold roast duck, an ugly second-hand op-shop swimsuit, a communal wet towel, more freckles, dirty public toilets, and sand everywhere... Needless to say, those were not fond memories, and I disliked the beach because it was chaotic and messy.

As I grew up, I held a grudge and sulked in the car while my friends made pit stops at different beach spots during our road trips. I wasn’t completely against the whole beach idea, since I enjoyed walking along the seashore at night when it was empty, clean, and peaceful, with only the sound of the ocean waves crashing.

Now, my children love the beach, so how could I possibly hate something that makes my family so incredibly happy?

talking to the moon

My earliest memory of ever missing anyone was when I was fifteen. It was my first boyfriend (using the title loosely here, since we only went out on one memorable date and saw each other three times during our forty-four days as a couple). So, of course, I missed him terribly when my family camped on Fraser Island during the school holidays.

While everyone snored rhythmically in their tents, I lay outside on the sand and stargazed. The single lopsided moon distracted me from the hundreds of stars twinkling in the lofty infinite sky. The sad thing about stars is, to the untrained eye, they’re identical and only beautiful in a cluster. The moon, however, is special, for it stands in solitude and looks over those who are equally lonely.

It was then that I realised how we could be anywhere in the world and still be looking at the same moon.

As a nostalgic person, I often reminisce and miss certain people. During those quiet moments, I wonder if they’re also gazing at the melancholy moon.