All of everything has slowed nearly to a stop in this resort town by Lake Michigan. There is almost no one at the beach besides us: my daughter, my grandson and me. The season is past. Just a few shore birds and walkers, and a couple of late swimmers: one very large man who came dressed all in black and now dives in black trunks, and the thin woman in a black bikini with him who shines like chrome when she curls up and down in and out of the teal water. The day is summery still, except for one or two fiery trees on the dune, and a thinner morning sun. Only the wind hurries on like a woman tugging her child to school or the next errand: Hurry, hurry, hurry up, honey. But oh, sand clings to my baby grandson’s chin where he has drooled, and I rejoice! Waves inside me clap with white-capped hands over how he face-plants this moment! He eats the sand, he blinks it, he sifts it through his chubby greedy fingers (but we know he will only, can only, take a small token of what is within reach). Then, like a grain of sand I kiss him. And cling.