mine

on the eve of my departure for mongolia i decided to see my dad for the first time in 14 years. i asked him to meet me at the Long Beach Aquarium upon someone's suggestion ("It's quiet, it's public, it's fun. You guys won't feel any pressure."). it's also spitting distance from interTrend, where i go in to work every few weeks from NYC. i'd never been to the aquarium before but it's adjacent to the beach i go to most every morning before work to sip my coffee and unwind. it's the beach i affectionately call "mine."

i've spent many hours there thinking about you, about me, about other things i affectionately call "mine."

after my father and i did a quick pass through the overpopulated aquarium, my dad said he wanted to take me somewhere. he drove us over to the Long Beach Museum where we had hamburgers at the outdoor cafe. on the way out of there he tells me:

This is Esperanza St. and when you were born this is where we lived. Right here. You should remember this. For the first 2 years of your life we lived here. I was always busy with work but your mom would walk you in the stroller to the beach every day. One day a car hit you while your mother walked you across the street. She called to tell me, "Makiko popped out of the stroller he hit us so suddenly!" I'm sure your mother still bears the scar on her hand.

it was my beach.
it was my beach.

it was my beach.

it was mine.

(my beach. remember?)