There is the silence of the sand, the dappled molds, each its own desert dune, extending from the stone steps and as I sweep my eyes along the beach, filling the emptiness of it; waiting.
There is the water, grey and pooled in patient puddles or licking at the curl in the shoreline, the slight line of froth it leaves behind, a child’s milk mustache.
There is the whispering voice of the wave on the sand; when…it chants, when. It waits also.
There is the sky. The blue has faded from the afternoon. It is late March, officially Spring, April a day or so away yet the pallor of the sky belies this. She gives no hint of what might come. She stretches over forest, over sand, over water, over the group of three young women who saunter across the sand on the other side of the pond, chatting happily. She resides over the two teenagers who, sneakers thrown haphazardly on the sand, jean legs rolled two or three inches above the ankles, gingerly tiptoe toward the water. I watch from a distance, leaning on the cold hard stone of the wall. The first retracts a toe almost immediately it touches the water. The head turns toward the friend who lingers behind. Perhaps words are exchanged. I am too far away to know. The toe once more approaches the water and this times the foot enters it. I watch the weight shift onto the leg and the body move forward. I watch the second foot just as tentatively enter the water, slowly, completely, the figure moving forward. I distract myself. How long? I wonder. How long?
This waiting. The sand that yearns for buckets and spades and towels and umbrellas. The water, for bodies to slice through it, skim its surface leaving trails of white foam. The sky which tries to spread blue light and beam the yellow warmth of the sun. When will it return?
April? May? June? …
This waiting. My sneakers tied tight, my socks, thick and warm. Wrapped in my winter coat and scarf. This waiting. …How long?