Bare Feet

There's sand caught in the hems of my jeans. There's more sand in the corners of my pockets, and I'm sure I've got enough sand in my shoes, wherever they are, to fill a child's sandbox. God, this day is perfect. The sun is a fiery ember hanging over the edge of the water, struggling to stay afloat, just to keep this perfect day going, for a few moments more. The remnants of the day are scattered around; empty cups and barbecue-smeared paper plates a silent witness to the day, strewn lazily among sand-castle turrets and furled edges of sun-bleached blankets. The grill smokes faintly, giving off hints of charcoal and grilled meat as it cools. A volleyball rolls along the shoreline, caught in an invisible game between the sand and waves. A breeze teases the hair around my face, and tickles my eyelashes.

The brilliant sun is nearly paralleled by a scorching blaze on the sand. Sets of bare feet perch on the stones that circle this mini-sun, a solar system built around logs so washed with saltwater that they burn blue. The flaring sun, the circle of rock planets with their toe-tapping moons, comets of marshmallows skewered over the ends of sticks blazing brilliant across the sky join a motley dance. The hovering sun begins its farewell, and shards of light pierce their way through the encroaching darkness of night, creating pictures I only pretend to recognize against the endless backdrop of forever.

Somebody has a guitar in the back of a pick-up truck, the kind of battered truck that has been so beaten by mud, dirt, and sunshine that you can't begin to guess what color the paint once was. To clamor inside takes practiced skill; the floorboard is nearly waist high on average. The cab smells faintly of cigarette smoke and oil, and the radio is stuck on the same station it was last year. The guitar and its owner descend gracefully over the tailgate, hardly producing more than a hiss upon feet meeting sand. Soon the rhythmic rise and swoop of the plucked strings blends into the sounds of the water, with the cries of circling birds singing backup.

I retreat for a moment to retrieve a sweatshirt from the truck; it's not mine, but it doesn't matter. We're all pieces of each other, with borrowed sunglasses here, a filched straw cowboy hat over there, a broken heart or two among us all, shared tears and love and jokes that we laugh to so hard our silhouettes blur together in the photographs. A sweatshirt is a grain of sand on the beach of our infinite existence. The pavement is foreign to the soles of my feet, unnaturally warm from baking in the day's sun, and doesn't give the way the sand does. Pavement is not forgiving. I hurry back to the haven of the sand, the fire a radiant beacon calling me back to brighter moments.

The mood has subdued, as has the temperature. We all huddle closer to our mini-sun, falling into its gravity, jostling for seats among rough logs or sprawled on the sand, our backs at the knees of another. It's a blurry moment, where time speeds up and stops all at once in a moment we're likely to forget. Somebody is laughing too loud, somebody is pushing someone else backward off a log, a paper plate flies like a spaceship across the tips of the flame, an intergalactic frisbee. The driftwood logs settle and pop, sending glittering messages skyward. We are infinite.

The hour is late, or maybe early. The sun is preparing to make its daily debut as we dump the cooler over the last of the fire. Steam and soot whoosh upward and sizzle in protest. The universe that brought us all together is demanding our departure. The morning rays reflect off the crinkly black trash bags as we stuff the rogue cups and frisbee-plates inside. Somebody remembers to rescue the volleyball from the tug of the waves as we all pile into the truck, adding the distinct aromas of bonfire and sea air to the familiar interior.

The battered truck lethargically grumbles onto the pavement, its cargo wearing borrowed clothes and borrowed hearts. There's an old song on the radio, and we wouldn't change the station, even if we could. Nobody sings along, but everybody acknowledges the beat. Toes tap, fingers click against the door handle, heads bob, we smile. As the sun blooms in full glory, the waves reach to us in farewell; we laugh and realize our bare feet. Our shoes lost among the sand stand witness to our infinite existence. They remain accessories lent to the night like a sweater from the back of an old truck.

An Ode to Denim Trousers

Dear Blue Jeans,

I knew we were going to have issues when I pre-washed you and you turned the inside of my washing machine blue. But I forgave you. Then you decided to redecorate my car interior with matching blue streaks. I now have seat-covers, so that one worked out in the end. But THIS is the last straw. I look like a smurf. You've dyed my legs blue. BLUE! And no amount of scrubbing in the shower has been able to remove the offensive dye. Now, I like blue. Really, I do. But blue is for drinks, not for people. This is not a scene from Avatar. Please keep your blue to yourself.

Love always,
Me