![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhnw_izsl8cZwTvaUmhtCqC2ByI3nbw26svhHBo5dcP3Q55l0t36R58Pd4lgMdtyjXMRAGdCNyu58hpsW0FQe1MiGo6UusU62_UkyqcOOZbwx9gOumJrvi22TtWbc7wMci2Xe2lWDNKZw/s320/coney+train.jpg)
It was on a train back from Coney.
I had been visiting someone half way there and when I got on I could smell the sun and the sea and the sand.
It was a mother and her two daughters and one of the daugher's daughter and that daughter's son. Three generations. Doing what I had done with my gramma. A day at a beach, bags of wet suits and empty sandwich and cookie containers and just like that little boy, the ride back lulling me to sleep, my head on a warm lap.