The sandy grains brushed my eyes awake as the salty air swept through the beaches. A deep sapphire sea gently kissed the shore, and I was happy. It was simpler then, having Mom within an earshot, eager to converse, teach, and learn with me.

I was hungry. I got up, and ran to the ocean to play, probably my early mind's simplistic way to distract the discomfort. The ocean always brought exuberance. It never grew tired, it was always welcoming another life form. I felt safe in there — I still do. I love to lift up my legs and submerge my ears underwater and hear utter silence, see nothing but the sun. It is purity. A tranquil storm, such as I.

It was June I think, I was around seven. We were staying in a two-bedroom condo called "The Windrift" in Avalon, New Jersey fully equipped with a coffee maker, a microwave for Easy Mac, and a porch overlooking the pool and beach behind it. The blinds were mainly drawn, and the temporary house was cool and dark.

Dad had left to take a nap. He relied on the comfort of a nap every day for as long as I can remember. In between the hours of 12 and 2 at home, we were to be quiet to ensure him a satisfying rest.

When he arrived back — rejuvenated, I might add — Mom called me back because it was time for lunch. As I trudged up the hill, I gazed my eyes on what he had prepared. A loaf of Italian bread, with smooth JIF peanut butter and grape jelly; each slice had been folded in half. Alongside was a large container of freshly cut watermelon with juice emanating from the nearly scarlet-red fruit. We ate the whole entire loaf, and every last bit of watermelon down to any juice left on our fingers.

It was the single-greatest meal of my entire life. I wish I could suspend that moment somewhere far away in space and time because it is too perfect for this Earth. Maybe it was the fact that I had so much sun in my eyes, or because of the way my dad put love into the meal but it will never leave me. I can still taste the jelly mixed with the occasional grain of sand; I can still remember the vibrations of my dad's laughter; and I remember that day he went swimming in the ocean, something I had never seen him do before.