Warm Sand

When I was little there was nothing better than to get wet in the cold ocean and then roll in the hot white sand. I am sure I was a sand-spraying menace to my sister and her cool friend that lived up the lane. I remember my mom asking if I wanted to wash off before lunch. I never quite understood why, but now when I think about it, I remember the crunch between my teeth that shouldn’t have been there.

We used to use gas and a rag to get the tar off our feet from the “oil flatforms” a couple miles out to sea. People think that is strange when I tell them that, but it was just what was to me.

There is a space we create within these words that’s safe. Sometimes someone writes something that feels, no matter the subject, like home. That is probably stepping over some lines or boundaries, but I’ve never been very good at those. I’ve always found myself to be too much, untempered and broken. I’ve never got the knack of this life or the proper flow within it. Maybe one day I will, but as of now, I don’t care that much. All I know is that those momentary safe spaces that are created by words, electricity and recognition, make me feel human and alive.

No, sorry, I can’t explain it more or better. This language fails me even though it’s the only one I know.

I’d like some cold water and hot sand to roll in. Maybe, there, I’d feel safe again. Maybe within that warm blanket, home wouldn’t feel so fleeting.