each summer

was it twenty years,
or more
perhaps,
that it was
family in tow, child
waist high,
wife,
as young as she would
ever be
with you,
at the shore, the sparkle
of light
when sunlight
meets the ocean.
the air full of salt
and sea.
the gulls striped
white.
our hearts safe
with each other.
those years, long past,
no longer
belong to her, or me,
to the child, now
grown,
despite
what it seems
in the photographs.
they are memories, sure,
but turned
inside out
to the way each wants
them to always be.