Tango and I love walking on sidewalks, trails, and now, the beach. We follow a short boardwalk from our campground. At the dune’s edge I fling off my flip-flops, unleash Tango, and start breathing the salty air. We walk either east or west in a grand circle or out and back. We walk close to the tide line, letting the incoming water catch up to our feet. Squealing. Laughing. Shivering.
I love to inspect tracks in the sand, which are mostly birds and, of course, Tango’s canine prints with sharp toenail holes. Pelicans soar overhead, and a far off lighthouse makes its intermittent, pleasant warning gong. Some days, a large cargo ship heads into the Gulf of Mexico, either full of American goods bound for far places or just emptied of Chinese products now lining the shelves at Wal-Mart.
Most days we are alone on the beach but over the last two days others have been walking near us, clearly in a mellow holiday mood and clad mostly in shorts and t-shirts. A few people sit on low beach chairs talking or reading.The weather people would call today fair, which is to say, perfect for late December.
As we walk today, I am looking at tracks again. Suddenly, I come upon one large man’s footprint, perfectly formed, fairly fresh. The incoming tide must have washed away the other footprints, leaving only one behind. I recognize that one print. It is my late Dad’s foot. I stop, I stare, and I shudder for a moment. Neither happy nor sad, as I stare dumbfounded at the footprint I relive summers spent with my Dad on Long Island, NY. I remember how he walked purposefully towards the water’s edge at low tide, leaving a long trail of those large foot prints. He was searching for clams, and whenever he saw a vent hole in the sand, he twisted his body just so and his big feet would sink. When he felt the clam with his feet he would bend over and scoop it up. It was like a game to me, but he was serious. The thought of clam chowder kept him motivated, and my eagerness to help probably complicated the process.
As I looked at the lone footprint in the sand I also thought about a game we played, when I walked on his feet. Dad would hold me under my elbows and I would stand on his feet. He walked around with me like that. I would slide off, then again, again, again, he let me stand on those feet. One more time, please Daddy? I knew by then that please was a magic word and would usually get me what I wanted
Daddy installed in me my sense of adventure, and we loved wandering around the beach. It was a stable, calming, safe place for us, but that is not to say it was an idyllic time. The lone footprint took me to the few good memories I have of my rage-aholic, alcoholic dad. Normally, I have a great deal of anger towards him, all knotted up somewhere inside, but for a moment the gift of a footprint reminded me that I also loved him fiercely. Maybe that is why I am here, grieving at last. 
