“Stop,” she says. “Stop,” she continues to say. 🧸

Moment #013

I stand in a parking lot getting suited for a surf. I hear a toddler crying a few cars down, along with the voice of presumably the mom or caretaker.

“Stop,” she says.
“Stop,” she continues to say.

One “stop” after another. “You are too loud.”

A quiet sadness veils over my heart.

“Stop,” again she commands. And I do, as I listen to the exchange.

The wailing persists. “Stop,” the caretaker insists. Each “stop” more impatient. The “word” stop was said so many times it lost meaning. Though I wonder if it ever meant anything for the toddler.

Twenty minutes pass before I’m fully suited. The weeping and “stop” continue to teeter-totter. I head toward the beach. I walk past where the crying is coming from but I don’t see the toddler. Up ahead, the ocean awaits. I never learn if the wailing stopped.

Spring 2026