Charlie

Is there anything more powerful, more moving than the ocean? Standing on the balcony of a modest motel at the Jersey Shore, I marveled at its beauty, peace, and strength. This isn't the Jersey Shore made famous by MTV— the one filled with endless partying and chaos. This is the quiet kind of place where multi-generational families gather to enjoy the sun, sand, waves, a pool, and simple, clean rooms.

The year my grandfather passed away, my Mom, Grandma, and I started what would become a new tradition, heading down the shore for Grandma's birthday weekend. My Mom and I came up with the idea to make sure Grandma wouldn't spend it alone and to insert a well-deserved girl’s weekend for the three of us. This trip continued, year after year, much to all our delight. It's a place you visit to relax and reconnect, with a good (or maybe not so good, but enjoyable) book in hand, and the sound of the waves in your ears.

Despite the sand that always manages to get everywhere and the salty air that turns my curly hair into a frizzy mess, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be. Watching the waves crash against the sand, coming for shells and beachgoer’s toes, seagulls swooping for crabs or unattended snacks, and the grass swaying on the dunes— it’s perfect.

As a kid, we always went at the end of summer. Going earlier meant the water was too chilly to enjoy, but by the end of summer, it was just the right temperature. Plus, it was quieter, with most people flocking to malls to get ready for school and the return to reality.

In what would turn out to be the last time Mom, Grandma, and I went together, it was the summer after Mom’s last round of chemo. We splurged on rooms with balconies overlooking the ocean. Being the only one physically capable, I hauled the over-packed suitcases of three women up two flights of stairs, but it was worth it, even if we didn’t wear half of what we brought.

Though I’m not a morning person, watching the sunrise from that balcony was unforgettable. I’ll admit, part of the reason I was up so early was because the beds were so uncomfortable that the following night, none of us slept in them. Grandma took the pull-out couch, Mom settled on the other couch, and I tried to sleep on a chair with an ottoman. As uncomfortable as it was, I still look back on that weekend with a smile because it was time spent with two women I adore.

Whether we were swimming in the pool, collecting shells, or reading, it was perfect quality time. Each morning, we’d sit on the balcony, nibbling on a bagel or fruit, while our damp towels dried in the sun. Every time we sat there, a seagull would perch on the roof corner, watching us patiently, hoping for any morsel that fell from our mouths. After seeing him often enough, Mom named him Charlie.

The three of us were so at peace, we were together, it was easy. We gossiped about family and the going-ons of our daily lives, what was going on in the world, and had a true reset.

The next year, Mom and Grandma went without me— my husband and I had welcomed our wonderful little boy into the world that August. My priorities had shifted, and I could not leave my husband and son so soon after he had completed our family. Mom and Grandma had a great time, they sent me texts and pictures, which was as close as I was going to get to the beach for a while.

The year after that, no one went.

Mom’s cancer had returned that summer, and soon after, she entered hospice care. A month later, my heart shattered into a million pieces.

They say the “firsts” after losing someone are the hardest. Holidays, birthdays, and other milestones can’t be avoided. But there are other rituals, traditions, and events that you can ignore or try to distract yourself from.

People often told me how strong I was, how well I seemed to handle everything. The truth was, I felt broken. That first year, I couldn’t leave the house without Xanax in my purse. Unpredictable moments would trigger panic attacks, and I’d break down crying. Driving home, memories would flood in, and I'd lose control. Any situation tied to her— to us— would send me into a spiral, curled up on the bathroom floor, crying instead of sleeping.

The following summer, after having faced all the unavoidable “firsts,” I still couldn’t bring myself to go down the shore. It was the first year in my life I didn’t see the healing waves hitting the warm sand. Part of me regretted not going, but I needed the space. The shore was too filled with memories of Mom. I didn’t want to taint it with my sorrow— the ocean contained enough salty water; I didn’t need to add my tears to the mix.

The next January, I talked to Grandma, and with some apprehension, we decided to make reservations for our usual weekend. If either of us changed our mind, we could back out. There were a lot of feelings that we were both managing, so making the plan, with the understanding of flexibility, helped both of us. That’s when she suggested we bring a new third to the trip— my son, who would be two. That year, with some uncertainty, I returned to the shore with Grandma and my son.

Six years later, we’re gearing up to head down the shore again. We still go to the same motel. Every year, new memories are created alongside the old ones. We have added sandcastle building, mini golf and a lot of ice cream to our ever-evolving tradition. My son, now eight, always makes sure to say hello to Charlie, and in those moments, I remember that Mom is always with us— soaking in the sun at the Jersey Shore.