Digging for clams like digging for gold, thought the youngest child as she pushed into the soft sand. Wetly slurping, the crushed rocks played a musical chorus as the children formed their own little world of toil and energy. Isolated from the sadness of everyday life by this little strip of beach. A place where families could gather and separate. A place where moonlit walks were the norm, and more than one love had been professed beneath the tumbling stars.
Another clam clinked into the bucket. Soon there would be enough for dinner. Mother waited under the palms, a fan in her hands and impatience in her heart. But, not even her nervous humming could interrupt this daily ritual. Shovels churned the sand into derision, and the siblings singular focus was unbroken by the tide. The tide, which continued to roll in, and lick at their feet, with promises of watery hope….or watery death. But, they knew of the tides, just as they understood the cycle of life and death. After all, one does not live on the world’s shore without seeing more than just driftwood wash up on the bone white ground. Sometimes fear is not enough, but hope is just right.
sand bleach memories
within time’s spiraling well
hope lives on the shore