When the Smoke Clears

Finished up the time with my grandmother and made the trek to Florida. I hear Santa is coming, but I imagine he’s going to swing wide from this place tonight. Mom and I sat and talked and laughed. Eventually she decided she was tired enough to go to sleep.

I cleaned up the dishes then went for a walk on the beach. With the light drizzle and the lack of lights this far up from the town, the walk was in an eery darkness, that much more unsettling because the roar of the ocean would mask the sound of anyone rushing up behind with a knife.

The water was cold, almost bracing. The sand did not feel right so I imagine when I see it tomorrow, it will not be the powdery gray and white sand I grew up with but rather some orange and pink shell mix that keeps getting added to the beach to compensate for the erosion.

Everything on this earth changes with the seasons, even the shape of our lands, and yet we struggle daily to maintain the familiar if we did not craft those changes ourselves. Shorelines drift in and out, riverbanks move side to side, mountains grow and dissolve, the seasons get warmer and colder in a great cycle. Why do we feel this moment has to be the way it should always be?

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