The magic of sand box
is not in the cool sand between my toes.
It’s not in the salty coldness of the water.
It’s not in the call of the sugar cane train or the hum of traffic
as I face Lana’i and float quietly on the lull of the current.
The magic of sand box
lies in the memory of the Kiawe tree near the steps
that remembers two little girls on the sand, their goza mat
under the shade of the tree, one girl running to face the waves,
the other standing on the edge of the water trying to be brave
and jumping over the tickling fingers on the edge of the water.
The magic of sandbox lies in the concrete picnic tables and benches
that remembers a grandfather taking the two girls down to the beach as a grandmother sweeps the sand off the table, sets up a dinner of hot dogs and musubi, her large brown hands absently shooing away the flies.
The magic of sandbox lies in the orange/pink/ red of the sun as it sends its last aloha to the end of day and the darkness of the waves marks the end of another summer, another year, another magic memory stored safely at sandbox.
