merry christmas
it has become a tradition, my christmas night on the beach, after dark, the cold sand against my back, the horizon circling around me. tonight clouds filled the sky, threatened rain. tonight i did not walk, did not gather sand dollars, tonight i laid on my back, watched the clouds shift above me while the tide came in. tonight the hood of my new coat cupped around my ears while the ocean roared. tonight i thought softly of the year wrapping up, the year to come.
the beach has changed again. the last storm ripped away the furthest peak on the path, spread sand across the reeds, left islands of pathway, logs and uprooted trees strewn across the new shoreline--their weathered roots cascading and tangling. this morning on our beachwalk the children and i rub them softly between our fingers, remark how they are like hair. we press our hands to the side of the tree where it has been rubbed bare, polished smooth. we see the seafoam and laugh that it is like the beachy version of a white christmas.
this morning i made bread pudding for breakfast and sat sipping coffee amidst a whirling swirl of stockings, gifts, and children.
i have known this house and this shoreline in its constancy and its upheavals for 27 years. i have sat at this table by this window since i was eyelevel to the tabletop, walked the shore since i could announce my weary legs and be carried piggyback home from the beach.
christmas morning, long midday walk, mimosas and too much chocolate. every year the story is a little different, but there is always the wind, the ocean, the sky. there are always my feet and the shifting sand beneath them.
the beach has changed again. the last storm ripped away the furthest peak on the path, spread sand across the reeds, left islands of pathway, logs and uprooted trees strewn across the new shoreline--their weathered roots cascading and tangling. this morning on our beachwalk the children and i rub them softly between our fingers, remark how they are like hair. we press our hands to the side of the tree where it has been rubbed bare, polished smooth. we see the seafoam and laugh that it is like the beachy version of a white christmas.
this morning i made bread pudding for breakfast and sat sipping coffee amidst a whirling swirl of stockings, gifts, and children.
i have known this house and this shoreline in its constancy and its upheavals for 27 years. i have sat at this table by this window since i was eyelevel to the tabletop, walked the shore since i could announce my weary legs and be carried piggyback home from the beach.
christmas morning, long midday walk, mimosas and too much chocolate. every year the story is a little different, but there is always the wind, the ocean, the sky. there are always my feet and the shifting sand beneath them.