Ocean Grove

The Atlantic Ocean is wild, raging against shore and tumbling in salty somersaults; the beach is full and bears no resemblance to the quiet afternoon before. I stood at the edge of the thrashing waves and remembered a summer looking to the sea for answers: now I have no questions, no storms within to quell, and I had forgotten, I think, what that was like. My skin is pale like April, it pinks and browns in ripples and I allow whatever changes come, because summer sits securely fastened to my senses now, radiates in my muscles and lulls me to safety. We drink wine out of thermos flasks and pull up our chairs every time the tide moves higher, all of August still lies ahead of us and sometimes I think we’ll all be okay.

Hold tightly to the gifts you are given. Relish them, let your fingers get pruny in their delights. When winter comes you may need them. And now you know how to lean into their sunshine, when you do.