The Last Day of Summer

Waves that lap against the shore tell the time. The ebb and flow, the push and pull, they pump one second in and one second out. The ocean is constant. It does not bend to circumstances and is infinite. In its infinity is an all-consuming awe if you choose to see it. The ocean is the same ocean that it was millions of years ago, yet it remembers nothing. The explorers that first stormed through this beach in Florida left footprints that were to be erased, and the ocean forgets them. There is too much to remember already. The ocean stays the same, but the world still changes it. Litter floats into the outerbanks of the ocean, depositing on the beach where no one comes to pick it up. Sea animals become more scarce because the ocean is corrupted. So, in a way, the ocean has changed. An infinite sea with limited time.

The afternoon sun is fading into an eruption of pink and gold, but the sand documents the recent movements. Footprints dot the sand and mark a happy summer day. One footprint is large and more heavily secured into the grains. A young man, perhaps in his mid-twenties. Another footprint is much smaller and fading still. An older woman, perhaps in her sixties. The footprints trace along the stretch of the beach. 

The sand marks their stops along the way. There is the crumbling sandcastle, the outlines of a long, lanky body and a shorter, smaller body spreading their wings out, and the scuffing of what could be a slow-paced football game. The sand marks the time in between each of these things, fading the farther you get from the two silhouettes painted against the sunset. The footprints stop here, and the bodies mark the sunset that is present to them now.

A young man sits with an older woman. The woman leans on his shoulder, and they stay here for a while. It is the last day of summer, and the sand knows this because the footprints of the day become more and more frequent now, people frantically trying to leave a lasting impression on the immutable sand. It’s kind of sad, really. 

The man’s name is Marco. The sand knows this because it is the name etched into the grains, the name that the ocean tries to forget by lapping on and off again. The woman’s name is Cecelia. Marco breathes slowly, taking in the gorgeous sunset above his head. The sand feels him sinking deeper and deeper. Cecelia must breathe fast, though, because she can feel herself getting older. The sand can tell this by the heartbeat translating from her heart to her fingers, pulsing the grains rapidly. The sand knows this kind of quickness of the heart. The woman is dying. 

The sand cannot know everything, but the sand can trace the outline of a story here. The man is visiting her. The sand remembers his sure steps coming to this beach every summer for the past seven years. Cecelia is a regular beach-comer. Her small steps come every day to forget the things happening to her. The tumor in her body, making every new step she takes more difficult. The tumor, corroding her like water on sheets of metal. And the sand knows one thing that is certain-they are in love.

Marco sighs, taking in the ocean’s steady lapping. Cecelia’s heart beats more rapidly, then slows. It slows to match the ocean. She joins the ocean’s eternal calmness.

“You have your plane ticket for tomorrow?” Cecelia asks, her voice unstrained. She is calm.

Marco nods. “Four p.m. on the flight to New York City,” he answers.

“I’ve always wanted to visit New York. Tell me about it,” Cecelia says.

“It’s busy. Not like here. The ocean and the sand keep track of time, but there’s always something going on. Like the city’s on fire. And no one stops. Life just goes on and on.”

“That sounds nice,” Cecelia says. She is thinking of the slowness of time here, the way the beach documents everything that occurs. New York sounds like a city to forget things. To dismiss time. To get caught up in something bigger than a tumor.

“And what about the beaches there?” she asks.

Marco shakes his head, fixing his gaze to the sunset. “They’re not like here. Always too many people running around. It’s too busy to enjoy.”

Cecelia nods, not really listening to him but her own beating heart.

“And what of your environmental science degree?” she asks. It’s how they had met. Marco was in his freshman year of college when he had come to Florida for the summer to do research. Cecelia had been working at the local fish market. It was only supposed to be for one summer, but Marco kept coming back every summer. It wasn’t for his internship, though.

“The PHD will be difficult, but it’ll be worth it when I graduate. The Marine Life center in New York will hire me immediately, as I’ve been told.”

“You’ve worked hard for it,” Cecelia says, smiling proudly.

They sit a little longer, taking in the slipping sun before the ocean swallows it whole. The color is slowly draining from the sky, and that’s ok. The dark will hide the things that can’t be said in light.

“If we could just stay here forever…” Marco trails off wistfully. He knows that this is the last day of summer, as the sand does. He dreads it, as the sand does, because it will lead to lonely days. It’s not just the last day of summer, though. This is Cecelia’s last summer. Like the litter does to the ocean, the tumor has left Cecelia with limited time. They must sit here, as the sand and the ocean do, and endure this moment because they cannot let it slip through their fingers like grains of sand.

“But we can’t,” Cecelia says. Marco looks down at her, hurt. She has broken the unspoken rule of sitting here on this beach.

“I know,” Marco says sadly.

“But it would be nice, wouldn’t it?” Cecelia asks. She cannot dwell on the upcoming horizon of what will happen to her.

Marco nods. They lock fingers and squeeze. Some bonds cannot be corroded by the water or forgotten by the sand.

“Cecelia, are you scared?” Marco asks. Now he has broken their rule.

“No,” Cecelia says, confused by her own response. “No, I’m not. There are a lot of things to be afraid of, but when life becomes so short, death can’t be one of them.”

“I am,” Marco confesses. “I don’t want to leave you. I don’t want to leave this beach.” It is an anchor for him to happier days before he goes to get swallowed by the crushing wave of the city, constantly kicking to stay afloat.

“I know,” Cecelia says. “But we can’t help what is irreversible. And this is our last night together. Just promise me one thing.”

“Anything,” Marco says.

“Promise that you won’t stop your life when I go. You’re so young. You have a long life ahead of you.”

The sand remembers the previous summers where the couple had been here. Running down the beach. Jumping around. Bolting into the ocean. That was its own, separate life. Now the couple stands at the fork in the road, where Cecelia’s life will end and Marco has so much left. Perhaps youth is a curse too. 

Marco doesn’t want to promise her this, but he must. He must. “I promise,” he says.

They sit here for a few more minutes. Then the sand feels small footsteps plant into the grains. They are more sure now. The grains shift as two more footsteps rise. Four more footsteps are made as the feet step closer. The sand protects this memory from the lapping waves, because time cannot erase this moment for them. The sand may not be immutable, it can remember every moment. After a few minutes, footsteps trace back to the steps that lead up to the boardwalk, up the dune hill. 

The sand lets the ocean splash over it now, because it is sad. This is the last time these two sets of footprints will be marking the sand, and what a shame that is. What a deep shame.