Lowcountry Brunch & Sky-High Monkey Bars
Some Saturdays unfold the way old Polaroids develop—slowly, and then all at once. We gathered at Triangle Char & Bar, sunlight angling through garage‑door windows while Lizzie traced the menu like it was a map to elsewhere. Carole told the kind of stories that makes time wander, and the kids, Wyatt and Lolo, slipped into the pixelated constellations of the phones. When the food finally arrived, it felt less like a wait ended than a conversation interrupted by French toast and eggs.
We handed over Lolo’s belated gifts: a Minecraft torch to keep the creepers at bay and an otter robe so she could join the river critters she loves. She pulled the hood over her eyes and, just like that, became both present and mythic, Schrödinger’s otter‑girl giggling beneath plush anonymity.
After brunch we followed Alycia Alley, a hallway painted by people who refuse to let walls be silent. Every dog became a mandatory stop, every wag, a vote for universal joy. The Greenway opened ahead, oak shade, bird chirping soundtrack and the kids discovered monkey bars as if gravity were an inconvenience they’d temporarily outgrown. They hung there, laughing, while a heron stood monk‑still in the marsh, the bird’s reflection practicing patience in tannin‑dark water.
Heat pooled in our shoes on the walk back. Lolo asked for a shoulder ride, and I obliged, carrying her like the day carried us—sweaty, a little heavier, yet somehow lighter for the lifting. We reached the cars tired and sweating but fulfilled from an afternoon well spent.
