Salt Air, Sandy Feet, and Ice Cream Sundaes

When the boys were small, the Cape was our summertime retreat. We would head through the city, down Route 3, across the Sagamore Bridge to Route 6. Our destination: a small, three-room cottage nestled in among a seasonal cottage community purchased decades ago by my husband’s grandparents. The dirt roads and 5 mph speed limit made it an ideal place for kids to ride their bikes while parents relaxed. The small beach was a ten-minute walk away, just across the road. It was delightful for boys just learning to play and swim in the ocean. They dug holes and buried themselves under sand, gritty and sun-warmed; collected shells and sand crabs in scalloped-handled pails; built drip sand castles, the quartz causing it to glitter in the sun.

The boys’ attention span for the beach was short, but the Cape held much more. We would bike along the Cape Cod Rail Trail, a meandering path winding along pristine freshwater ponds and cranberry bogs, through town centers from Dennis to Wellfleet. The boys traveled miles along that trail—first on bike seats, then balance bikes, and finally, their own road bikes. They jumped on trampolines, rode go-karts—progressing from passenger to driver, to their own kart; saw summer movies in the too-cold theater; and ate hot dogs and fried seafood at weathered picnic tables.

I spent the past week on the Cape with a friend. In the morning, we were students learning to be better psychologists. In the afternoon, we walked the Brewster tidal flats; people-watched in Provincetown; biked the Cape Cod Rail Trail; and watched Eastern Phoebe, Tufted Titmouse, and Nuthatches. Everywhere I went, I was reminded of summers past with growing boys. The muggy nights—boys aloft on our shoulders or...