I’m at Acadia National Park in Maine. I’m seven years old, and this is Christopher Beach. It’s covered with little pebbles, all white, black, or grey, and my feet are bare as I walk along the shore, holding my father’s hand. In the distance I can see my mother, reading a book under a big umbrella. She waves to me. It is a glorious day.
The happiness I feel is not diminished by the slight pain I feel in the soles of my feet. The stones are hot, but not sharp; they’ve been worn smooth by years of being moved around by the tide. I am wearing sunglasses that are borrowed from my dad, and they’re too large for me. They keep slipping off my nose. I can’t see my father’s face, though, because the sun is right above his head. I can feel he’s smiling at me, though. It’s a memory I have kept with me all my life ever since that day in the sunshine of youth.