Gratitude Comes in Many Flavors by Barbara Quinn

Overhead the gulls are cawing, and in the distance the waves crash. It’s the height of summer at the shore. When the ocean is stirred up from impending or departing storms, the roar of the waves has a different quality. It’s more of a constant rumble that never dies, and the air has a strong salty smell. On calmer days, there’s a lull between the rhythmic crashes. The ocean is lovely any time of day or night, and people flock to the shore, sitting and staring, and listening to the mesmerizing song of the sea. It really does heal many ills. But it’s more than the sound washing over you that is good for you. The taste of the salt of the ocean is comforting: it’s the amniotic fluid of life itself lingering on the back of your throat.

This town where I live on the shore, Bradley Beach, isn’t a carnival town. There’s an occasional booth selling food, and yesterday I saw a hot dog cart called “Dogs Unleashed.” Beyond a couple of food places, there’s a playground full of kids climbing, running, and shouting, and also The Bradley Beach Club, which is a simple miniature golf course on the boardwalk. The town wisely keeps the attractions to a minimum, and keeps the focus on the ocean.

Late in the afternoon when the sun begins to descend and a little bit of melancholy washes over me, the sand begins to feel scratchy on my skin, and tiredness sets in. At that sad end of a lovely day, one more wonderful summer sound permeates the air: the sound of the ice cream truck. A big white truck slowly rides down the block playing “Turkey in the Straw” and another plays “Oh, Suzanna.” The music is old-fashioned, calliope-like. The kids rush to the street and line up to buy their treats. Their smiles speak of ageless joys. They taste and make their way back home. Everything’s all right.

The Living Breathing Me by Kat Magendie

I hear the sway of the trees before I see them. The wind makes known its presence without arrogance. I appreciate. I think that I am holding my breath in awe at the very thought of a tree, the wind, and me; but no, my chest rises and falls as it has since I first took that gasping cry at birth. Just as my heart beats without my asking it to. Living without even trying. Ah.

I hear the sighs around me, human, animal, and other. They are alive; I am alive; and why? Question of the ages, question without answer – yes – the unanswerable question of the living breathing me. Human is the only one asking. I slow my steps, barely daring to move, savoring the moment of hyper-awareness of all that is around me—how lucky I feel at this moment! How alive and real! I am aware of my arms and legs and the organs of my body and what a miracle I am. I want to cry, not because I am sad, but because I have lived, every day of my life, and even when I thought I did not want to live the next day came and I was glad to awaken.

Somewhere in some city in some neighborhood a child laughs and soon, when the days are long and filled with heat, an ice cream truck will play its song, one that has never changed in all the years I remember it. I have a sudden recollection of little girl me waiting at the chilly window as I hold out my pudgy hand for an ice treat, while my other hand grips sweaty nickels to hand over to Mr. Ice Cream Man—a fair trade, the imperishable for the perishable, even steven: Life at that moment is completely fair and I know it, the ice cream man knows it, and all the kids waiting their turn know it. I lick my treat and traces of it run down my chin, my arms. My feet are colored green from just-mown grass. The sun descends quickly. The clock ticks. The dark barks. I am me. The moon pale-washes my face, gentle touch from that ancient orb of mystery. My mother calls, “Kids! Come in.” I run home.

It is winter now, with spring at the front door knocking. I am a woman fully grown, wishing for a cold treat and summer green feet, but just as glad to be right here, right now, living, breathing.