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The wind combs her fingers through the grass strands, then her sighs send waves rolling over it, reminding me of the beach we would visit on our Saturday trips when Dad would buy fried chicken and we would splash for hours, salt baking into my freckled skin and sand wedged in between my toes. Sea gulls would swoop over head while Midnight dashed along the shore yapping, her black fur absorbing heat, a shadow always running. How many Saturdays did we spend there, with wrinkled fingers and worshipful faces? How many tired afternoons did Daddy drive us home, with worn and happy children nodding off in the backseats? Will my children one day think of the park the way I remember the shore, with reverence, with awe, with nostalgia, nearly regret? Will I one day gather my own brood and carry them there to plunge into the tossing waves and feel the might of God?