So I know vacation was two weeks ago now, but there’s just something about it that sticks with me. Maybe it’s the sand. Ya. It’s probably the sand that’s still stuck in the creases of my backpack and (I swear!) in my pores.
I’m one of those old-fashioned human beings that still likes to write (with a pen AND paper!) in this thing called a journal and then upload it later onto this new-fangled thing some people like to call the internet. Below is one of those instances where I’m just now getting to something I wrote weeks ago. I know, WEEKS AGO!! In this world of instantaneous uploads, how could I?!
Without further ado, I wrote this while sitting on a deck overlooking the beach as the sun waned in North Carolina. Let’s think of this as another Word Photograph:
The sea foam washes my toes at high tide. Frothy milk edges with a sprinkle of sand cinnamon. A saltwater chai tea latte for me to scoop up and wash down. The foaming bubbles catch between my toes, trying to hide from their inevitable fate as the shore gulps them down. Pop pop pop! So gentle none but themselves hear as they vanish into oblivion. A quiet, whispering, moaning release lost in the cacophonous symphony of sound that are the bellowing waves of trumpets and tubas and the smashing, humming of drums that rumble so deeply your stomach shakes. All around me are sounds, far louder than any city street but more soothing than a mother’s lullaby in your cradle before you know how harsh the world can be. Just a gentle swish swish and away they are whisked again-a brief lull before the next crescendo. Before the milk froths again for your afternoon saltwater coffee break.
The world glitters colors – thousands of colors reflecting all the particles of the universe. The sand refracts a thousand colors of glass yet to be formed. Crabs so big you want to reach for a plate and a steam bucket glow blue from their shells as they scuttle nervously against the current, scuttling madly from shelter to shelter. Shrimp holes bubble in the sand, a seafood platter just waiting to be washed. Pelicans float across the sky as seagulls madly dance and screech, screaming for attention and the scraps from tourists, whose trash fills the sea in careless tossings. Shells reflect the light of a thousand origins – orange ruffles, potato crisp ridges, black oyster holders, rocky fragments, shell-like glimpses. An entire world of sight and sound. Then a hush falls over the crowd. A split-second pause, only for your ears.