The day begins with a whisper. I look out the window and wonder if the
daylight is coming or whether I have hours to wait. The sky is grey-blue and brilliantly lit with moonlight. Softly, very softly, the sky lightens to grey. If there are clouds, and I can shift in bed to see them without disturbing Ellen, I watch them turn from black to orange to maroon and then lighten, revealing their whiteness that seemed impossible just minutes ago.
It is quiet. There are only a handfull of us left here on the beach. The 
sea is quiet; there are no waves and no wind. The tide is high and the fishermen don’t leave til afternoon and the morning is silent. I shift again and think of coffee. I wonder when Ellen will awake and demand"nipsea". More often than not, she wakes long before I expect her to; before I’m ready to share the day.
Or….
The day begins with a whine. Ellen has awakened before the sun has risen and as hard as I try to convince her that it isn’t day, she announces, "it is DAYTIME mom" and demands "nipsea". She nurses and I hope feverently that she will
fall back to sleep and I can catch just a little bit more sleep. Not once has this worked, but every morning I hope anew. I think of coffee and after enduring the entire family piled in "my" bed, I clean the room, stow the comforters (in a futile attempt to keep them sand free) and start coffee. Demands for one breakfast item after another; I’ve now adopted a menu of one item. It is not always the same item, but the days of "short order cook" are over. I have a beach to enjoy. 
