By Jenna Holland (poetic_angel@gurlmail.com)
Date: 9 September 2000
Sun Sets over Summer
For Brian, with all my love...
Against my will, but by nature’s instinct, summer began to routinely slide into fall. The trees turn different shades of green as the thought of winter settles in. Cold winds will soon pass over the sand, smoothing over the footprints of those who have passed before us not too long ago. The lagoons will freeze halting all reminders of wakes splashing against the bulkhead. The sounds of heat exiting the vent make a facade for the longing memories of the nights spent on the beach, sleeping in a blanket of sand and dreaming salt water dreams as the waves break off shore.
I remember the summer we went down to the island and rented a house on the beach. It was one of those “beach-bum, all-I-need-is-my-surf-board” type of house, yet the view made it really surreal looking. Our mornings lasted the longest, not wanting to leave the confined space, that seemed to allow summertime to last just those few minutes longer. Finally, half-heartedly kicking off the sheets as the dry ocean breeze coasted through the window, we made it out of bed. We would spend our days allowing the sun to take advantage of us, always being so cynical, as we walked the boulevard holding hands at dead low. We’d pass the corner shops leaving our fingerprints on the window turning into the store. We never bought anything; instead just stared at the shelves and comment with perverted inside jokes. As the humid day faded over the water, we barbecued on the grill until the setting sun in all its glory finally gave in to the envious moon. Casting down their guiding beams the stars foreshadowed the midnight surf. The ocean being so generous almost left me with a sense of guilt for secretly wishing we never kicked off those sheets.
We acted like children and their first time ever at the beach; never taking a sunny sky for granted as we cuddled on the cold days when you forgot your sweatshirt. Rolling down the dunes, playing in the sand, and tiring ourselves out just in time to let the sand settle in our hair became habit forming. We’d relax after that and just sit pressing our feet down into the wet sand, leaving our footprints to be washed away by the ripples, and discuss how yours were headed to the Puerto Rican coastline and would eventually meet mine at the Bonzai Pipeline. I think those were the days I missed the most, the ones when we fantasized the future as an endless summer and us as endless lovers. I still don’t think I have gotten all the sand out of my hair yet.
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