The Sand Beneath My Feet

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Wrapped in a bright yellow sarong, I light the doorway of my ramshackle hut. The sun is beginning to brighten the sky and I can see the magnificence of my morning view. There it is,  my bliss. My light. My life. I carry a freshly cut piece of coconut in my left hand. The white milk drips and is sticky on my fingers. I lift it to my mouth and bite at the chalky sweetness and chew slowly.

Waves crash and my heartbeat flutters. The constant motion of the sea makes me giddy. It’s like the hustle and bustle of city life without being constantly run into by people. All of them on some kind of mission. Going nowhere, but everywhere. All at the same damn time as me.

But here, I’ve a feeling of unmitigated peace. My smile is as radiant as the bronze color of my skin and the blonde shimmer in my hair.

My family can’t quite believe that I made the transition, but where else would a budding novelist go? The feel of sand beneath my feet is finer than any red carpet that I could ever wish to walk on.

The wind picks up strands of hair that have fallen from the messy pile that I’ve carelessly placed upon my head. Sea spray settles on my sun dappled nose and cheeks.  I glide my tongue along my bottom lip and taste the tang of salt and whisper, ‘I’m home.’

Meggie teases that my freckles are age spots, but I don’t care. I’ll keep wearing sunscreen and pray that I keep aging gracefully. Who am I kidding? I will age, whither and die. It’s inevitable, and a necessary part of life. Until then I’ll write a story, or 1000 of them. However many I can.

I wend my way to my favorite spot, where I pray for inspiration and understanding. I lay pen to paper and let the words rush out of me. While all around me the waves tumble, seagulls call, winds blow and my heart soars.

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Observations from “The Pier” by Jack Vettriano

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It was understood back then everybody needed a pier. Now there’s a perception of a value change. There’s a sensitivity to the scenic impacts of piers.-Don Lane

I’m seated in the gallery. My eyes focused on a painting by Vettriano entitled, The Pier. I’ve often wondered what the stories were for each of the subjects that he painted. The young lovers seated next to the solitary man. The lonely man gazing over the railing. The young girl in blue standing next to her father. The middle aged couple standing under the umbrella.

It’s funny how I can view an image and weave a story. Some folks think it’s a talent. Some think it’s me being arrogant. Like I know that I write well. For me it isn’t either of those things. I see the image and there’s a flash of clarity. A knowing. It’s not always a good story. Nor should it be. There’s a darkness to this talent of mine. A sadness that seeps into my chest. No one can remove it, but me. It escapes when I write.

I withdraw my notebook and pen from my purse. I stare intently at the older couple standing under the umbrella. My mind wanders to the pier. I’m standing at the railing with the lonely man. I take into my nostrils the tang of the salt water. Hear the squawk of the seagulls. See the waves lap the shore. I’m in my element. At home. My pen starts before I realize what I’m writing….

The lady and gentleman stand under the umbrella. Not touching. But there’s an intimacy in the way he shields her from the heat of the day. He looks at her and envisions the young woman he married 15 years before. She turns to him and gives him a knowing smile. That’s the nicety of being with someone for so long. The familiarity. They came to the pier that day to walk and soak up the sun. There was the shared hot dog and cotton candy too. The ride in the rickshaw. Holding hands while walking in and out of shops. They bought nothing. Only talked about what items would look pretty in their seaside home. They’re childless after so many years together, but they have each other. That’s all that matters. He wishes he didn’t have to hold the umbrella. He wishes they were at home. In bed. Sharing wine, chocolate and kisses.

Remember I told you, I’m standing next to the lonely man at the railing. I turn to look at him as he stares out into the wide open. There’s a crashing of waves in his eyes. A storm. There’s no serenity in the seascape for him. He’s thinking of the job he lost. The wife that’s no longer waiting for him at home. He knows his next double shot of whiskey will bring him no solace. He wants to end it all. Walk into the ocean and drown. Like Sylvia Plath. Stones in his pockets. The end.

The young girl in blue stands with her father. She wants to be any place but here. Actually, she wants to be with her sweetheart. They had shared their first kiss a few days before. She’s still preoccupied with the softness of his lips. The way they bumped noses trying to figure out which way to turn their heads. Where to put their hands. The tingling sensation that surged through them as they brushed tongues. Daddy is asking her about school. She answers automatically, “It’s fine. Everything is fine.” She smiles at him. He sees his little girl growing up before his eyes. She’ll be going away to college in two years. He’ll be lost without her. Even though she grows away from him, he loves her more with each passing day. Also, he knows about the first kiss from her sweetheart. It makes him happy, but wistful.

The old man is sitting on the bench next to the young couple. He thinks back to the day when the love of his life died. He lost all hope for living when he put her in the ground. His children are there for him. Take care of his bills. The housework. Bring the grand kids to see him too. They try to make it not seem like an obligation. Like they love him and want to be with him. He knows better though. They have their own lives to live. He wishes they would do just that and leave him alone. His mind wanders back to a pleasant memory of his wife. 40 years before, they’d walked the pier. Hand in hand. Her hair up in a bun with a few tendrils escaping the clasp that she had used to keep her hair in place. He bought her some popcorn. They shared the bag and smiled at each other when their fingers touched. He licked the salt from her fingers, and the blush that rose to her cheeks made a stirring in his loins. How he missed that feeling. How much he missed that beautiful wife of his. And how he longed for his death, so he could be with her again. For eternity.

Ah now it’s time to tell the story of the young couple. Not even a breath of air gets between them.  His arm is around her. Her hands, on his chest. It is sweltering, but the lovers pay no mind. They continue to touch each other. Sharing a sip of soda to cool their lips in between sweet kisses. She lays her head on his shoulder. He caresses her side and kisses her forehead. They gaze out at the ocean. Hear the roar of the surf. The crest of the waves surge, like their need for each other. How he wants to take her right where they are. On a bench in the middle of a crowded pier. She would allow him to, for she wants him also. Her dress billows in the wind caused by the surf. The young woman turns her head, and whispers, “take me home, and make love to me.” He answers yes, by lifting her delicate hand to his mouth. He licks the tips of her fingers.

I back away from the railing and once again find myself seated on the bench in front of the painting. My eyes open and notice my notebook bears the scribbles of the story I just penned. It’s funny, I barely remember writing anything. I thought I was standing next to the lonely man at the railing on “The Pier”. I place the items in my hands back in my purse. I get up to leave the gallery. It’s then that I notice hanging on the wall close by is, The Singing Butler by Vettriano. I head to the gift shop to buy the print. I always wanted to have a copy of it for my home.

You Were Always my Prayer, and My Promise

Each of us is born with a box of matches inside us but we can’t strike them all by ourselves”
― Laura EsquivelLike Water for Chocolate

As we set up our chairs on the beach, I hear the roar of the Atlantic at our backs. It’s full dark, the end of the summer season, and there’s a chill in the air. We decide to take advantage of the crisp, and brisk night and have friends over. You and the guys build a blazing fire on our little section of beach. We women sit and drink sweet red wine. Watching you interact with the guys makes me smile. You’re so confident in your fire making skills. You laugh easily. I love to see your easy smile light up your entire face.

We’ve known some of these people for years. Others, we  met at the beginning of the summer. There’s wine and conversation. So much laughter. We sit in our short beach chairs around the fire. The flames are high and twist in the gentle breeze caused by the surf. Their colors are copper, crimson and sapphire. The wood is dry and cracks at the intensity of the heat. I lean up against your chest. You hold me close and I’ve never felt more free. More happy. More alive.

I contribute to the conversation. Say something sarcastic and snarky, because it’s what I do. I hear you laugh and it’s music to my ears. I sit up and grab a bottle of wine. I drink right from it, and hand it to you. You take a long pull on the bottle and pass it back to me.  I bury it half way in the sand next to me, so it won’t tip over. I tell it to sit and stay, like it’s a dog. You and our friends laugh.

As the conversation continues, you put your hands in mine. I look down at them and notice that they are like mine. Soft, yet strong. Yours are strong enough to hold a girl that likes to run, but needs a home. A safe place to land. You’ve given me all of that. I’ve given you unconditional love. Something you’ve longed for, but never found. You’ve always loved too hard and gotten hurt. Until me. Until you. Until us, we merely existed. Now we live. For each other. For this, simple little life. On a beach. On the Atlantic.

You ease your grip and I caress your palms with my fingertips. I look into your eyes, and see the blazing fire reflected in them. Along with every emotion you feel for me. I smile at you and my pulse quickens. My body reacts with want, and I blush. You always make me blush. Still. Our friends stop and look at us. Some smile, while others are wistful. There we are on the beach with our friends around a campfire and we’re holding hands. But we’re doing more than that. Our love emanates and flows to those around us. Then I laugh my silly horse laugh and the spell is broken.

I turn to our circle of friends and say something with the word fuck in it, and everyone laughs uproariously. We unclasp our hands, I turn around and settle back into your chest. You put your arms around me, kiss the top of my head and whisper that you love me. I feel the warmth of flames on the front of my body, and the warmth of your inner flame in my back.  I lean my head up, kiss your chin and whisper that I love you. Then I say your name. It slips easily from my lips, like a prayer. Like a promise. You were always my prayer, and my promise.