My parents met at the University of South Carolina when my mother was a freshman there. Her friend, Whit, invited my mother to go with her to Pawleys’ Island. My father tagged along and later when they got married they agreed to go to the beach at least once every year. So after they got married they started going to Myrtle Beach, South Carolina for a week every year. Later after they had children they continued the tradition. This year marks 65 years that my family has been going to “the beach” for the family vacation. After a few years Myrtle Beach got too big with high rises and they moved the vacation to North Myrtle Beach, SC. For about the past 15 years we have been going to Cherry Grove Beach in North Myrtle Beach. Sometimes at the beach we have entertainment night. For entertainment night this year I wrote this original poem:
And Still They ComeBy Michelle BrodieAugust 24, 2017Young lovers on Pauley’s Island, a Charleston BeachHe lies on the sand under the stars dreaming how later her hand in marriage he will beseechMarried now and she with a son nearThey vow to return to this beach or some beach at least once every yearLike the wide plateau of the seaTheir family expands as though it will never ceaseLittle ant-infested cabins with salt-infused water like Haul HavenAre replaced with high rises up and down the coastHa ha ha of the Laughing Gulls mocking the passage of time like a cackling boastThe sky turmeric with the setting sun marks time slipping pastSoon one leads to ten; it all happens so fastStill they comeJanuary brings a rare snow inland where they usually resideNot too early for a young girl to cram a grocery bag full of shorts and shirts in anticipation of the annual trip to the tideA trip that takes on enormous proportionsFor the year hastes away in fractional contortionsAlready the car is packed with kids and her nose pressed against the Barracuda’s glassHer sister’s sweaty thigh pressed against her ass“Don’t touch me!” Useless to say in the exploding confines of a car meant for six but kids piled in like hayA blue boat sails over the glass and blots out the sun cooking her like toastSoon it’s returned to its place and they are on their way again to the coastTo the coast and still they comeThe little cottages disappearingThe growing family moves farther and farther into the clearingTil finally they are bunched up at the borderAnd still there is no orderAlways chaosChairs flipped over, papers snatched, children pounceYet not one of them would trade any of it for a billion or an ounceAs way leads on to way they might never pass this way in years to comeAnd yet a mother’s wish that they return and their own hurricane desires assures that for one week every year forever more a beach in South Carolina will be their homeAnd still they come
