Updates….

Hi. I’ve been writing. A lot. And I’ve been doing it outside of here, and then I thought- well that’s silly. Why not just post my writing here? Most of it is about, well, feelings. Relationships. I’ll pepper in current events from time to time, as well. Anyway, here’s my first post back. I call this one ‘Salt.’

I keep the air conditioning on max, but lower my window an inch or so. Almost immediately, hot muggy air, scented with skank low tide and overpriced sunscreen fills my nostrils. I allow my eyes to drift momentarily to the left and the despondency gripping my gut releases, slightly. Enough so I can take a deeper breath.

My eyes return to the windshield and I run dry finger pads against the textured heat of the steering wheel. My left toes slide out of overused Birkenstocks and come to rest on the seat. My feet have imprinted filthy outlines into the soles and the Birkenstock is barely visible. I could buy a new pair, but I can’t.

I’ve lost so much, so I hold onto sandals that are too old, and small jars of preserves I’ll never use, and an elephant statue from Home Goods that seems to be missing part of an ear. My desire to be meticulous fades in my grief. Sorrow brings about a sharp desire to hold onto everything, everywhere. Faded ticket stubs and pens with their ink long-ago dried. T-shirts with oil stains shaped like a kidney and gaudy touristy shot glasses.

I grip the microfiber lined seat with my clenched toes and pull my knee in close, imagining my ribs a protective barrier around my battle-wounded heart. A cage.

I couldn’t protect you, but I will keep you safe now, I say. To no one.

I can already feel the sunburn stinging my shoulders and my scalp and that palm printed shape I can’t reach on my upper back. I can taste the salty remnants of the ocean on my bottom lip, knots dotting my already-wild curls.

I can feel the humidity-softened pages of my summer read and the sand imbedded in the open blister at the back of my right heel.

I reject the notion of White Claws and Bluetooth speakers. I crave crashing waves and too-light, too-sweet iced coffee. Ruined pedicures and collected shells and peach juice dripping down already sticky forearms.

Moisture spreads by the bottom section of my faded cotton tank and I lean forward to pull it from my waistband. The air conditioner is freezing my bare lashes, rendering my eyes that of a kewpie doll, but the heat outside is fierce and the artificial chill provided by my mid-rate sedan doesn’t stand a chance.

I glance to the left again, nodding, acknowledging Mother Nature’s power and resiliency. A bad bitch to the core who yields to no one. I think of the paper face masks and plastic bottles scattered around the shoreline, like an unwinnable scavenger hunt.

Fuck you, she thunders, as she ushers in soaring temperatures and wayward sharks.

You win, I say, not at all begrudgingly, and with the smallest of smiles.

I shift, feeling fabric gathering in the middle of my ass. My floral one-piece is simultaneously stretched out and too small. Ill-fitting. Which feels appropriate, but also, uncomfortable. Frustrating.

I open the window further and reach my hand out into the warm breeze. I suddenly remember the myth of Jimmy, the young schoolboy who lost his hand in this way. As I’ve already resigned myself to too much, I push my palm out further.

The car swerves as I engage in this fate-tempting behavior and suddenly, a horn blares, shaking me out of my self-destructive revery.

My broken heart beats heavy in my chest as I raise my rebellious hand into the thick air, granting my fellow road warrior the universal sign for ‘sorry I’m an asshole who can’t drive.’

I grip the bottom of the wheel with my degenerate digits and use my right hand to turn the volume up on the radio. “Sh*t People” by Avery Lynch is playing and this feels apropos in that way that heartburn follows a greasy meal. Satisfying moments chased swiftly away by agony and regret.

Shit people.

People who treat me like shit.

People who I permit to treat me like shit.

People who are shit.

I can’t seem to locate the faint line that separates my anger and sadness. They coil tightly around each other in my solar plexus, an impenetrable helix. Where I’m concerned, gloom always emerges the victor.

I turn off the parkway and line up behind a Subaru station wagon with one of those insufferable honor student bumper stickers. I ball two sweaty fives in my left hand and twist the stud in my right ear, the gummy resistance oddly satisfying.

The young woman half leaning out of the ticket booth is effortlessly cool with a cloud of frizzy hair framing elegant cheekbones and the thinnest gold bull ring glinting between her nostrils. She smiles broadly, shiny lips revealing front teeth that overlap just slightly. I want to wrap myself around her thin frame, begging her to stay this way. Young and kind.

I mumble a thank you, overwhelmed by my irrational thoughts. Pulling into a parking spot at the far end of the lot, I turn off the car, and step onto the broken pavement. I marvel at my fellow beach goers. Wagons and coolers and bags, oh my. I’ve brought ancient plastic framed Chloe sunglasses and a watered-down coffee and my wounds.

Rather than moving toward the bathhouse, I weave my way through prickly bushes, bending down for a brief moment to slip my sandals off, looping the nubby straps around my fingers. I walk straight to the water’s edge, trance-like. My arches press firmly into tightly packed, wet sand and the sensation causes me to grip the sides of my coffee cup, feeling the plastic buckle.

I lose myself in the colliding waves, teeny bobbing figures, and the barges lining the horizon.

I think of the young woman at the ticket booth and my family, buttery sunflowers and gooey peanut butter. I think of dirty hiking boots and unimaginably ripe avocados. I think of binge-worthy shows and novels I can’t put down and perfectly made Manhattans. I think of a new set of Sharpies and a bike ride at dusk and runs when most everyone is still sleeping. I think of vanilla soft serve with rainbow sprinkles and pillows flattened with age.

I scrape my initials into the mush with my big toe and for what feels like the first time, breathe.

I’m sad but also, I’m okay.

Life is not fair and bad decisions are made, often, and many people are shitty. But also, there are beautiful moments and good people.

And so, I’ll be okay.

The tide rolls in and erases my handiwork.

I turn around and walk back towards the parking lot.

x

L.