Who would have thought that February meant summer? Yet here I find myself, at the edge of the sea, with toes buried in the warm sand as the salty breeze chases the heat away from my skin.
I am amazed as I stare out at the mountains silhouetted against the smooth horizon across the bay. I love coming to the beach on days as clear as this one. I walk along the edge of the tide, drawing patterns with my toes in the wet sand as I twirl in circles, picking up tiny shells and rocks to examine, then plopping them back down where they were because I promised Nate that I wouldn't bring any more home. I enjoy watching the people that surround me as I stroll; the couples walking hand-in-hand, siblings digging holes only for them to be refilled once the tide comes high enough, and families enjoying being in each others company.
I don't know, really, how to exactly describe the way I feel drawn to the sea. Maybe it is because my mind is sprinkled with so many memories of childhood days spent by these sunny shores. I remember a night of camping on the sand that was so windy I was sure that our tent was going to be carried away by the gusts with me and my entire family still inside. Another memory of the beach is one of the lasts I have with my brother, Sam. I skipped classes that day to be with my family, and I'm glad I did. I vividly remember a few weeks later, our first ocean trip without Sam that my mom thought was too soon, but I never regretted because it was on that day that I realized that I was falling for Nate.
So as I drive away I am overcome by an urge, a longing, to go back, to sit down on the sand and stare at the waves until the sun slips below the edge and we must say goodbye... until next time.