I am a beach girl. Remember that, because it is going to be important later. But I am. I go every chance I get. Pale as I am, sunscreen in masses, I sojourn to the water as often as I can. My free-thinking friends claim my birth sign as an explanation, “She”s a Pisces, what do you expect?” My “J” friends think I am just being “P”. Assumptions on their parts. Not that explanations are necessary, but I have my reasons.
*–*–*
It is not a pristine beach; it is inhabited by every sort of beach-comber. Dogs run off leash despite the large signs posted to the contrary. Small children claim their invincibility charging fearlessly into the frozen water. This is not Hawaii after all but Northern California. Just don’t tell the surfers who imagine the swells they master as rides of a lifetime. If you look up you see Brown Pelicans fly overhead; you are impressed more by their wingspan than their distinctive bills. The sand is coarse, made of tiny bits of quartz and agate tumbled for centuries by the sea. Look closely and you will see its color is far from uniform, but infinite in its variations. Tiny bits of perfectly formed rounds: blue, green, buff, orange, gold. . . It isn’t easy to walk. The sand is only slightly warm, not retaining the heat of whiter beaches.
She sits on the beach. She is radiant in her beauty;no matter how many times you see her your gasps remain audible. Her skin the color of unknown years in her position; you can’t help but wonder where on the color spectrum her shade exists, if at all. Look closely and you will see she is the color of the sand. It’s hard to imagine God on the beach in her bikini soaking up the sun, but there she is. Undeniably. You sit down. You have a lot to say. She has a lot to hear. Listening is a skill she has developed in her tenure at the Beach, it’s a gift really. She isn’t silent as much as she is attentive. You matter here, if only here. You slather on more sunscreen, because you are not the color of the sand but pale, pale, pale from spending too much time indoors enslaved to your class-schedule or computer or trying to please someone you deem important enough from which to seek approval. She has only one question:
What took you so long to get here?
*-*-*
You start to pour out what has kept you, what has detained you. It isn’t as if you didn’t know just where to find her. Your tears are taking over now, threatening to overwhelm you. The taste is familiar. They take on momentum seeking trails to find their way home into the sea. For some reason you feel better, exhausted by your grief and yet somehow much lighter than when you began. She holds your hand. She’s good at that. Her fingers leave tiny smudges on your burning skin.
You get into your car. It is not a long drive back to all that keeps you busy. Clinging to you feet are perfectly formed rounds of blue, green . . . you look at your hands, your legs, your arms. As you look closely, you realize that you are covered in tiny pieces of God colored sand. You promise yourself to come back sooner next time, before all evidence of her finger prints have been washed away. One small piece of blue sits in the palm of your hand. You think, “Maybe I will keep this one piece�” but decide better. You place it on your tongue, it tastes of salt. You swallow. This piece of her you take with you.
