I hurried across the hot sand where my granddaughter age five, sat on a blanket smiling widely at a gray haired man with two little boys in tow. The small ice chest I carried bumped against my leg guaranteed to leave yet another bruise on aging skin. Unless the stranger collected small kids for evil purposes, my little Patti seemed just fine.
“I’m Ralph Berg and these fine boys are my grand sons.” Right away the boys displayed their trucks and shovels.
As I straightened our blanket, sun chairs and clamped umbrellas, I wished they would all take another piece of real estate on the beach and move on. I’m a widow for God Sake; can’t this Ralph person tell I’m in mourning from my black swim suit?
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