Seasons

In the summertime the heat urges me to the beach. The sand is warm beneath my feet as are the waves against my body. I nod to the gulls who are no doubt wondering why I am alone. I fall into the sea.

Unintelligible sounds crash into me under the surface. I close my eyes as I drift toward the ocean bed. It is colder here. Yellow angelfish kiss my cheeks, my fingertips, and my arms. A moray brushes my side, and then there is an arm under my back. The sounds of the gulls crying and waves pounding against the cliffside flood my ears.

I’m standing, and I turn. There you are, wading toward me with your riding pants rolled above your knees. In the distance behind you, I see our horses, a lead rope between your chestnut and my dappled gray.

We lie in the beach grass; and I am nostalgic, reminiscent of the days when we knew nothing but ourselves. We were younger then, but we are still just as carefree, only a little more cautious of the world.

My skin breathes in the salty air when you pull the damp linen from my arms. My head rests on your chest, and your fingertips find my hair, wavy from air drying; and this, to me, is serenity.

I pull up the beach grass and braid it into a circle. You fix it upon my head, calling me Amphitrite.

When we return I arrange the grass crown with the wildflower vase.