We got up at 8, and the whole
house was a bustle, Boxes and bags lined the walls outside doors like so much
trash, but colored with a starburst’s palette, bright greens and reds and
yellows, always framed or speckled with white.
Smells of bread and cold meat
mingled with salt and sunblock. The steady procession of men proceeded to the
van, laid down with straps and stacks. While Women scurried about, checking
every door, every window, and themselves in every mirror.
As the car filled, and few
were left in the house, they checked and rechecked, until one had seen it all,
and then we were off. Not like a shot, but like a turtle, who thought he was a
hare. The engine roared but the van, more full than it would have, rocked and
leaned as much as it rolled forward, until there was enough speed to hold it
all down.
Once the car slowed to a
halt, the doors cautiously slid open, but the people were anything but. They
scrambled out in a scene too common in sinking ships and burning buildings, but
they were not fleeing from but fleeing to.
Loose stones and sharp grass
gave way to rough pavement, well heated in the noon day sun. Splintering old dock boards provided a
little respite, but demanded their own payment.
And just as the crashing
waves were in sight, one last obstacle, the bubbling sand, creeping into and
over wherever it could.
Once again as you tried to
fly over the sand, you were pulled deep into those fiery depths by the many
yokes across your shoulders and around your neck. Many trails glitter with the
precious things whose value dwindled before heat or cold, but no sooner does a
gust of sand fly, hauntingly reminiscent of foamy sea spray, then a screeching
voice raises the alarm, and your fingers wrap around a steel handle, and feel
how hot it has become.
But then the site is reached,
chairs and shade set, and you are free.
Running down the sand so fast
you struggle to keep your feet from falling behind. Sheets of ragged water kick
up like flaps of a torn tent as you crash through, tripping as the water
reaches up above your knees.
But you didn’t trip, you
dove. You can move much faster now, with your hands and your feet.
Soon enough you clamber back
up to shore, expelled from the sea like a marooned sailor, but how many laughed
at their good fortune, it’s time for lunch.
With the cold of the sea
running down your skin, the sand doesn’t feel so bad, every step cooling in
your touch.
Down the planks, across the
street, to grandmother’s house we go. What does it matter that she’s not yours,
she’s a grandmother, with all the simple sweetness and wrinkled grins that bind
the very old, and the very young.
Hot dogs steaming inside
their brightly shining aluminum, a can of Sunkist sweating at the thought of
facing the sun, and twin disks of thick dark bread, standing guard like two
castles reaching above and below to protect the soft skin of their alabaster
maidens.
The register rings as cards
pop up to display their price, powered not by electricity but by her fingers.
Of course you would like to
devour your goodies right on the doorstep, but you can’t. No words are needed
to make you wait. Your arms cradle many wax paper bundles, while both hands try
to contain those that rest on top, rolling like square wheels.
Hands reach out to snatch
their own, and only your quick moves keep what’s yours from vanishing with the
rest.
And so, at last, you eat. The
crunch of a few bites confirms that sand kicked up by a heavy footstep has in
fact found its way into your food, but once you stop worrying, you realize that
it actually tastes better.
Books come out, and straw
hats become night caps, but that’s not for you.
Waters have receded, and a
thousand shallow pools dot the dark plains.
Soon castles emerge beside
lakes and moats, while crabs wander, knights without a king.
It’s time for a walk you say.
Someone among the group puts down their book or mumbles out of their sleep, and
you’re off.
The damp sand has become a
fair, filled with jugglers, paddlers, architects, and sculptures. As time
passes many prepare for the ocean’s onslaught, some with high walls, others
with deep holes, but we keep walking. Better to go back when it’s all gone,
than to see it slowly eaten away.
Soon the gentle sheets curl
into each other, and crash within inches of their border. No one makes it far,
and most either ride above, or tumble within, thrown back to shore like some
vile bite that could not be swallowed.
