"Snow-like Sand"

The lulling waves curl up upon the shore, rising tall, trembling, for every fiber in their being fears the inevitable and with a sigh of relief and loss of hope, each one falls onto the shore, foaming away with their demise. But there was something so beautiful, so calming about the dying waves, giving, perhaps, a new perspective of life. Their deaths play a soothing melody of white noise as I watch them, rocking in an old, peeling white wicker chair. I am bundled up in a sea of cloths- two blankets- one with large crocheted holes and the other, a soft, thick quilt-, a hat with a pom-pom at the top- a child’s hat-, a scarf that is so long, it sways against the floor, mittens doubled up, a jacket, and, underneath said jacket, a soft, worn sweater I cherish forever. I feel as though a soft yellow light radiates from my being, from my ecstasy, and it warms me. Though, it is indeed chilly outside. I can breathe clouds of smoke that melt away with the air--- a beautiful cloud of smoke. The sky is a vivid Indian blue with scattered billows that resemble my breath with grey tones as if signs of aging. My nose, cheeks, and ears blush pink rosebuds as they become nipped by the melted frosty weather. And I smile contently, with my stark blue eyes, the color of the sky and sea. 

For a few moments longer, I sway in the chair. I observe every detail around me. How the sand is as pale as my wan, wrinkled face. How the thin, top layers sift across this land like snow. How the thin sand seaves through the wispy, almost translucent green grasses that look like a cluster of freckles upon the dunes. This house is the only house here for miles. Though a gloomy bright, the sun has yet to come out this fine morning. But when it does, its ethereal rays will thaw my hardened face like a nice campfire on a summer’s night. Creaking, quivering, my old bones manage to bring me to my feet and I shuffle back inside the warm house. 

I place myself in a white chair in the dining room. At last, the sun’s rays come out of hiding and spread across the blue house. And with the sun’s light, I notice she is here early. She is a beautiful, sweet, young girl with a smile that penetrates your soul. She sits looking at me with her calm, coffee eyes. I love her. Her long, flowing, curling tanned hair lays splayed across one shoulder. She comes to tea every Sunday in the morning. And we do not speak, not yet, but she looks at me with such love in her eyes, and a slight placement of sorrow, that I begin to cry. Only a few silent tears and I do not know why. I do not know if they are out of love or sorrow or ecstasy. But, she cries, too, and she takes my hand at first and then she holds me. And then the sun dies down and I can’t see her. I think I’ve lost her, but I turn to look in the kitchen and she prepares the tea. 

“How have you been? How is school?” I ask.

“I’ve been the best I can be right now. School is… it’s hard.”

“Of course. It always is. What grade are you in now?” She looks at me, stays silent for a minute, then answers.

“Senior year. It’s almost over. How was school for you? Do you remember any of it?” 

“Hmm… It’s been a couple of years…”

“One year, actually.”

“I only remember up to my junior year. We had so much fun, didn’t we?”

“Too much fun. We were reckless. Do you remember what you liked doing?”

“It was bad…”

“Come on.”

“I smoked cannabis. I was stupid back then.”

“You were. We both were. Do you remember that night, in the middle of winter?” 

“Not exactly, no.”

“I remember. I’ll never forget. We smoked, then we went out driving, high. The roads were slippery, it was snowing. We couldn’t see very well. We smoked a lot. We were driving to the beach, remember? Because you loved the beach so much and you wanted to see its newfound beauty in the frozen, snowy winter. The phone rang, you were driving. I told you not to answer it. You looked down and I screamed. We swerved into the other lane and a car was coming head-on. You swerved off the side of the road, but we were on a hill. The car tumbled down, not too far down, but it tumbled. I woke up almost immediately. The car was sideways. We both had our seatbelts on. I managed to grab the phone and get myself out of the car. I couldn’t get you out, though. The reception was bad so I went to the top of the hill where the occasional car swished by. I got hold of 911 and when I finished on the phone, I heard an explosion down below. The car blew up. The gas must have leaked. And I dropped my phone. And I dropped to the floor. You were still in the car. You were still in the car!” When I looked up, her face was cherry red and seemed as if a rain cloud perpetually poured down her face. She sits down with the tea, trembling. She sits closer and holds my hand. “This could have been ours. This house, this beach. We could have grown old together, just you and me. Your face could be wrinkled and your hands always cold. You could have old, creaking bones and we could rock in our wicker chairs on our porch and listen to the white noise of the dying waves. But we can’t now. You can’t… I didn’t get to say goodbye. You didn’t die in my arms. You didn’t die by my side as I held you and whispered all of our hopes and dreams. It was snowing and you died cold and alone because I couldn’t save you.” 

She comes every Sunday. We meet in the middle. Sometimes I come and visit her, but most times, she visits me. I walk outside and lay down, cradled in one of the dunes as she watches me, old now in the wicker rocking chair. And she smiles and she cries as she always does. The wispy, flimsy translucent green grasses dance beside me, grazing my face as her fingers would. I close my eyes as the sun’s celestial rays thaw my body and I feel my breath puff out clouds of smoke. I feel the thin top layers of sand tickle my face like snow. And she sleeps in the warm dens of my mind, the memories she sleeps on, fading away with the tips of her fingers. And she rests there, until one day, her memory will blow away with the grasses and the sand and the snow in the wind… Or is it I who blow away someday?