Warm salt air with a hint of rotting seaweed
kick at my face. Sitting in the shade of a four post concrete cabana, feet
high, bare toes tickled by a warm breeze. I am content.
The beach runs along a gentle cove,
high rising walls of stone shoring in paradise among the desolation. The sands are
rocky, with coral scattered among the pebbles, aching to bite into soft flesh.
But even with the dangers to feet, the water is a soothing warmth to the body. First
to the delicate toes, then to the shy legs only to pull the shoulders and head underneath
as a white tipped waves thunder up the beach.
A half mile of paradise among the desolation
only brings a half portion of revelers. It could be the time of day, or the day
of the week, but even so it does feel lax as the sun hammers out of the
perfectly blue sky. Why so few? Could it be complacency? Could it be longing?
Could it be this is not the desolation it appears to be? Could be any of them,
though hope seems the closest thing. Fear of hope. Fear to be in the presence.
Fear to be reminded of beauty and freedom with the hyphenated removal from the
desolation. It makes going back that much harder.
As the day goes on, the shadows of the palm
trees slowly rotate across the sand. They are slight things and seem a stiff
breeze would bring them down. Holes pock the exterior of the trunks and leaves
normally green have edges of yellow. But they still stand, thick with coconuts,
swaying in the breeze, mocking anyone who doubts. They made their way to
paradise through generations of brothers plodding across the desolation. “Dare
to remove me,” they chant. Fragile as they look, their ancestors were strong. They
will not go quietly.
