It’s been years since I felt the sand between my toes. Not just any sand. I’ve felt sand volleyball court sand. I’ve felt playground sand. I’ve definitely felt the sand that still lingers in my car even after a thorough cleaning. No, it’s the sand that is cool and damp to the touch as the warm water sweeps back and forth above the surface. It’s the kind of sand that holds the tiny little creatures where air bubbles unfortunately reveal their location. I miss this sand because it never fails to be accompanied by the crashing waves and chorus of birds and I miss this sand because I knew it far too well.
This place looks different as plants are now littering the once spotless beach. Fewer people come by and even the air had more of a chill to it. My daddy’s beach house still stands overlooking the cerulean ocean but my footsteps do not, only my memories. A new family enjoys the beautiful sunroom where I would go into every morning to remind myself of the ocean air. Their children are the ones playing in the small sand pit that was formed by the brush that encircled the yard and the adults would watch them from the wrap around porch that creaks along with the rocking of a rocking chair. A lot of lemonade was spilled on that porch due to my clumsiness when I was younger and it makes me smile to this day thinking, perhaps also hoping, that a faint smell of lemons continue to impress the noses of the new guests.
I want to just knock on that door; rather, I want to just open the door myself using the key we hid underneath the welcome mat. I know it’s not there any more but I figure the new family did something similar, if not the same thing. I always felt uncomfortable having that key under there. It was welcoming strangers into our house at any time. My daddy was never concerned. He would constantly say that if a stranger wanted to come in, he’d serve them a nice cold beer and a gun to their face. I wasn’t sure which one sounded scarier, a stranger inside the house or my daddy ready and willing to shoot their face off.
But I decide that knocking on the door would be the most stupid idea I could come up with. Not only would the family just stare at me when they opened their door wondering who I was and what I was doing there but the smell emanating from the house, a different smell, would reaffirm that this wasn’t something familiar to me any more. In my mind the new house would smell like vanilla and warm cinnamon. It always smelled like rice and soy sauce when I lived there. It always smelled like my daddy’s cooking that trapped itself into the pillows and couches. I miss that smell. I could never cook the way my daddy did. I never took the time to learn his recipes or even watch him make dinner. He wanted me to learn but I always just said, another day.
As I leave the beach, the sun begins to settle slowly over the ocean. A small candle, probably electric, began to shimmer in one of the upper floor windows of the house. I realized that that was my old room. I would have never had a candle in my room. Or I probably would but probably would not have admitted having wanted one. I look back and give a little smile. I can picture a small little child getting settled in their room watching the sunset and the sky dimming, pink being painted across the sky. I can imagine that same child wondering what they will grow up to be and what memories they will have in that home. I can imagine that child because I was that child growing up.
Coming back here was not my idea. My momma wanted me home. The house they moved to is only a few miles away while I worked in Washington. I always try to avoid coming home but when my momma asks, I know it must be something she really wants. So every time I come home, this is the first place I go besides my house. I know I shouldn’t come here, the sand sticking to my bare feet, but I can’t help it. I can’t help but return. It is a part of me, a part of my story. This is where my story begins.
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