Beach Kitsch

The BLUE CRAB painted sign over the sink
tries very hard to be kitschy. It looks
distressed, not by the sting of salty
breezes but by a machine in a shop. Scrape.

The blue valance over the window is
living a life beyond what once worked;
just how my body would look in a bikini
this summer. Child number three has left
me with some gym work, still not undertaken.
I join the beach goers in a smart one piece
with a built in shelf bra to support my heavy
jugs of milk. I now feel like a mom, perhaps
for the first time. I carefully pull down
one strap to set free the teat my eleven-
month old wants. He lays next to me on the
towel and nurses. When he roles back over to
push to a seated position, laughing at the
incoming waves, my nipple catches some rays
of sun--for a second or two. "Too bad we
didn't just go to the French Riviera," my
husband comments. But here we are on the
North Carolina coast. Swimming suits are
required; and there is no one but me to
extend love and grace to the extra folds,
bumps, and general squishiness of this
my outer layer. Scales.

Drinking my morning tea now from a strangely
soft mug I found in the cupboard of the rented
beach house. I smile at how the wrapper can
influence my experience, even while the content
is still the same. I've always wanted to be to
considered eccentric. Like a piece of well-worn
beach kitsch. Squish. (too much Dr. Seuss).