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Duck tracks

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The wind lifts strands of hair from my face. Sharp light has me closing my eyes again. What's that sound? A quiet humming, hushing, soothing. Images flicker across my mind. 
Small island off the coast. Tall beach grass. Sun setting into the ocean. Sifting sand between my fingers. Crying, crying, crying. 
I turn onto my side, my sleeping bag making a crinkling sound in protest. The rising sun is behind me. The beach stretching out in front of me. A lone seagull circles the beach, dips towards the sand, rises with the morning breeze. 
Stumbling over a wet beach. Finding my way between mounds of shifting sand. To the highest point of the island. A small circle of grass, hiding me from view. 
I eat my breakfast with my sleeping bag wrapped as a blanket around my shoulders. Morning light colours the water a pale blueish grey. There's a sandy crunch to my sandwiches. I don't mind. The seagull is watching me, willing me to share. 
The old fisherman had shared his coffee with me. The tin cup dented. He didn't say much, but his eyes were filled with sympathy. I managed not to cry in front of him. 
Sleep has been sound. The fresh air has put colour back into my face. All these grains of sand have rubbed the memory of your touch from my skin. I'm nothing but me again. 
The old man smiled and nodded at the large thermos of freshly brewed coffee. I sat with my back to the mainland, watching the island becoming smaller and smaller as my heart grew bigger. 


Photographer: https://twitter.com/BetheneZ 


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