Narragansett Sundays

My parents took us to Narragansett on Sundays when there was enough gas money and the weather looked kind.

We packed sandwiches in foil, towels that never fully dried, and one cooler everybody fought over. My father worked six days a week in Providence, so those Sundays felt like borrowed time. He would sit in the sand with his shoes still on and say he was “just resting his eyes.”

Rhode Island is small, but our whole childhood fit inside it — the beach, the apartment, the church basement, and the ride home with salt still on our skin.