“Are we there yet?” asked Rosie, panting.

In the half hour since we had left home, this was the third time that she had asked the exact same question. True, it was a rather warm day, but surely even an 8 year old should be able to walk 2 kilometers without so much grumbling!

“Mum said we should take the bus,” she added.

True, I had twenty bucks in my pocket. But I figured if I was stuck taking my baby sister to the beach, I should gain something from it at least.

“Are we there yet?” asked Rosie again, puffing.

I looked back. The sand pail that had been joyously swinging to and fro now hung limply off her arm. I felt a tad guilty and took it from her.

“Almost there,” I reassure her as we take the bend.

Before us a seemingly infinite flat sea stretches out, the afternoon sun scattering diamonds across its surface, broken only by the white foam that laced the tips of each wave. The gentle slaps of waves sing a siren’s song as salty air whip Rosie’s ruddy cheeks.

“Are we there yet?” asks Rosie, now smiling widely at me.


In response to Flash Fiction For The Purposeful Practitioner -2017 Week 17

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