We sprint across the steaming dock as the metal fries our feet like sizzling bacon on a hot pan.

I throw my towel down in a hurry as the five of us cousins laugh,

“No running on the dock!” my grandma would yell. 

She was always so afraid I'd slip and fall into the shallow water. 

The smell of char and burgers infest our noses, 

poking my head up slightly to see Dad at the grill. 

We dive in and shiver as the cold water hits our tanned summers skin.

The sandy floor twisting as we run from it to grassy land, dodging the since fallen pine cones so as to not scream in pain. 

The smell from the grill wafts into our noses, we rush in line to make our plates.

Stacking onions, lettuce, tomatoes, pickles.

Spreading mayo along the warm toasted sesame bun.

Squeezing the almost empty ketchup in a jagged line.

We rush to the table as water drips from our half dried bodies,

fingers shriveled into raisins as we set our paper plates down. 

“Click” is the sound the glass bottle of Coke makes upon being opened.

“Ssss” it hisses at me as the bubbles fizz upward

“Gulp” I press my lips to the bottle, taking in gulps of the cold drink as we watch the tide crash against the rocky shoreline.