I passed the playground on the way back from the brief meeting with my dad. I pictured Lloyd not wanting to get shocked by the slides, but knew he'd have fun anyway, so I turned around.

No one else was there. First, I pushed him on the baby swing. His legs have grown longer since summer. I had to push him from behind, but returned to the front, stepped back this time. I didn't want to miss his blue eyes.

Yes, he said no to the slides. He climbed on dirty steps, bounced around and fell on the bridge, attempted the rock wall, and found a stick to poke in the wet leaves and bring down to the beach.

There were Canadian geese-a plenty in the field. Out of about 40, one was white. Lloyd wanted to practice the ol' moves papa taught him when dealing with geese. I could just tell. I started in to warn him he'd better keep his distance, when he instead told me that the geese might get him, and he'd better not let them get him (so papa's words). He didn't want to be "gotten," which kept him next to me, on the path.

I carried him on the steps. From above, I could not see all the driftwood collected on the shore. Water meeting sky was enough.

It was magnificent. Piled logs amid scattered branches and bundles of twigs. Even an uprooted tree. All smooth, with rounded edges. A graveyard. All turning white.

And the beached rocks kept the wood in place. I only took from the surface. I figured the visible rocks were meant for me, the buried ones for someone else. Lloyd threw some in the water. He also lost his stick to a gentle wave. He watched it float out, before needing a new one.

I picked up a rusty bottle cap and dropped it on the rocks for Lloyd. Then, he wanted to do it for me. He asked me if I liked that sound. I did.

I gathered some driftwood for the yard. The small one that looked like a foot and ankle ended up on the kitchen windowsill. I thought about giving the black one to someone for Christmas.

Lloyd repeated me saying goodbye to the beach, and "I love you," to the beach.