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.
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