At a beach on Madeline Island, my son and daughter searched for skipping stones, flat and smooth, perfectly sized to fit their little hands. They would have been six and nine that summer. We had gone to the island to sightsee, a day trip to visit a friend of my husband who had retired there. She drove us to a quiet inlet tucked safely away from the mighty waves of Lake Superior, and there we walked across the rose gold sand and there we found the stones.

My kids had not skipped stones before so my husband, Owen, more skilled at skipping stones than I, taught them. “First you find your stone, flat and smooth.” he searched for a perfect stone in the sand as the kids gamboled barefoot around him. “Then you hold the stone in your right hand.” He showed them how to stand a bit sideways to the water’s edge. “Swing your arm back, then forward,” he said as they gathered near him. “Now all in one motion twist your wrist, release the stone, letting it fly out of your hand at a shallow angle parallel to the surface of the water.” He demonstrated in slow motion, explained each step, while the kids listened and watched. Then he tossed the stone and, like magic, it skip-skip-skipped across the golden water.

I remember Rose and Ryan, my daughter and son, learned to skip stones that day. I remember how I soaked it all in, this scene of my husband and kids, and of how I, too, searched for stones to skip. But I wanted to remember more, so I went in search of pictures to help fill in the details. I searched through hundreds of pictures on my computer but couldn’t find any from that day. I chastised myself for not being more organized with my photos, started to wonder if I was making the event up because I could not find photographic proof that it happened. Are memories real, I started to wonder as I searched, if we cannot prove they are?

Finally, I found them. Two pictures. One of my son, one of my daughter. They would have been six and nine that summer. That summer we went to Madeline Island. They are at an inlet with rose-gold sand and green—oh so green!—grass and trees along the water’s edge. Rose stands, her right side to the camera in a pink T-shirt, white pants, or maybe they are capris or even shorts, rolled up well past her knees, her arms and legs tan, feet bare and ankle-deep in the water. Her shoulder-length hair, nearly black, in front of her face. The camera has captured her, right arm extended, a stone flying through the air. I can see her shadow in the water, the ripples around her feet. Did that stone Rose tossed skip across the water? The picture cannot tell me and I do not remember.

Then there is Ryan. Gray T-shirt and navy shorts. Bare feet ankle-deep in the water. Crouched low, his right side to the camera. His shadow, too, on the water, on the rose-gold sand. His right hand outstretched, appearing to be in motion as it’s slightly ablur, his left hand held out as though for balance. His short brown hair sticks up in back as though the wind is lifting it. His face shows concentration, or maybe a glimmer of a smile. There are stones in the water but none in the air. Did the camera not capture the toss? Did his stone already skip and land? The picture cannot tell me and I do not remember.

My son and daughter are nineteen and twenty-two now. I have written stories of their growing-up years, have taken pictures of trips, of birthdays, snapshots of the day to day, but still I have forgotten so many things that even stories and pictures can’t help me remember. I do remember, though, this day when my son and daughter were six and nine. I remember the sound of the stones skip-skip-skipping across the water. I remember their laughter. I remember happiness. And tired kids at the end of this glorious day. This I do remember.

-Myrna CG Mibus

Myrna CG Mibus is a writer and bookseller who lives in Northfield, Minnesota. She writes articles on topics ranging from aviation to afternoon tea and essays on family, motherhood, and life. Her essays and articles have been published in a variety of publications including Feminine Collective, Grown & Flown, Minneapolis StarTribune, and Wanderlust Journal. When she’s not writing, Myrna enjoys baking, bicycling, gardening, reading, and being mom to her two young adult children. Find her on Twitter and Instagram @myrnacgmibus