A week at the beach is like the life cycle of a peony bloom. It's so damn lush; but so short- lived.

There's that tight bud with a creamy white explosion at the ready. Such expectation. You pack up the necessities, fluffy towels and sheets and exotic lotions. Then there's the vodka, the tomato juice, the mixers; the sarongs and the flip flops to match.

But most luxurious is that glorious sense  of expectancy. Warm sands and curly, lacy, lazily surging surf with tides that mark the tedious toils of the day.

Tide out? Sun for two hours and oh...move the towels up beach as the lacy wash encroaches. Pickled eggs, cheese and Bloodies will be our delight, as we hide away in the beach tent, the hot gusts buffeting the blue.

We smile like well-fed cats in our deliciously protected half dome of blue nylon and sip our libations. We feel no need to talk, as we watch the waves come and go. We inhale the sea.

In six hour stints, the tides play in. And out. Only a blanket moving ritual for us. No moon pull of Herculean force is going to tear us away from this warm and grainy sanctuary.

My tempestuous Id wants to surrender to another Solo cup potion but I bid myself to stay tethered to the moment and close my eyes, wiggle my toes into the warm sand, and focus on the crash and sizzle of the surf. It regulates your breathing if you let it in.

The flower is in full out bloom when you fall asleep, and then drowsily awaken, with drool from the corner of your lip like a silk worm trail down your chin . And there's the transfer of summer reading ink on your oiled breast from resting there in the bake of sun.

This is when you must fall face first into the open cool of the petals. Inhale and try to get lost for a blessed moment; forget all else that swirls about your ecstasy. For you may only smell pure joy and release for a flying moment;  you may only suspend yourself in this forgetting of your weights for the duration of that involuntary smile that comes with the wash of the world off of your shoulders. It's as brief as a perfect bloom.

And as the days pass, you feel the shrink of time threatening to brown and fall away, with your contentment in tow. There's no stopping it.

On that last night of our stay, I try to squeeze the last moments of peace; I try to savor the dying hours just as I might grab that fading flower, tear it's petals apart and fling them upward, only to land on me like cashmere feathers. Breathe. Deep.

Stop and really look and listen at the ocean's ceaseless presence. Memorize the peace of that final moment in the back of your eyes.

You will come again. And she'll be there.

And then pack up the sad detritus of leaving the sound of falling waves with their steady soothing rhythm that feels like Momma's hand stroking your hair.

And drive away, holding the sweet, scented memories of peace until you come again.