sand

I live near the beach so I have the obligatory bowls of seashells all over my house. And sand. I have sand in my house, in my car, in the corners of the bathtubs, in the bottom of the washing machine, under the couch cushions and in my bed.

I hear seagulls all day and the occasional deep echoing sound of freighter horns way out in the gulf of mexico and the dinging bell of the causeway drawbridge that warns it is opening or closing.

My favorite time to go to the beach is at sunset, preferably during the week--fewer people. In the summertime when I arrive to witness sunset, most of the fat tourists have dragged their little fat sunburned children and neon rafts and inner tubes off to be stuffed into rental cars and driven back to the Holiday Inn where they will shower and dress in tacky tropical wear they fancy makes them look Island-like. And they will then go stuff their faces at the Outback.

I have the beach mostly to myself at twilight, the gloaming, my favorite time of day when everything vibrates and glows and it's quiet but for the mesmerizing sound of the waves and the shrill squeaking of the seabirds. I wiggle my butt into the sand and make myself a bucket seat and scrunch my toes deep into the sand, past the light, white dry powder down into the dark, cold, wetness beneath. I watch the sun melt into the water and rhythmically sift with my toes. Usually I hum. Then I go home and fold laundry.