2) Spirals In The Sand

Two minutes from the moss covered steps of our new home I could feel the sand beneath my bare toes. Like silky granules of sugar, the sand stuck to my ocean-splashed legs, which stung mildly from the salty waves. The sun shone brightly, though the wind blew like cool spirits on my face and neck.
I found a small inlet at the back of the long beach where I could shelter myself. The tall earthen-arms of the dry hill surrounded me on either side, blocking out the chill. I watched the Russian River churn before me, and I heard the ocean pounding beyond the yellow dunes. There were cars above me on top of the steep hill, speeding along into the distance, the drivers thrilling themselves with the sharp turns. I could barely hear the engines. They seemed far away, just as Philadelphia seemed like a dream now, still impressed into my memories, but subdued like memories that belong to another.
My mother slept beside me in the inlet, stretched out in the warm sand luxuriously, like a placid stone, content to exist. Her rough baseball-hat tilted across her face to shade it from the glare of the sun.
I bent down, cocking my head curiously to one side, peering under the rim of the hat. My mother’s face was peaceful and soft, her lips slightly parted and her eyes fluttered delicately.
My young mind puzzled as I drew absentmindedly in the sand with my fingers. She had never looked this way before. Her face always seemed to be pulled more tightly around her eyes and mouth. They were kind, but never as soft as they were now. At Race Street she walked stiffly, and slept tensely. It must have been the cars that seemed so close. Maybe it was the way at night there were no stars to light the rasping conversations in the shadowed alleys. Perhaps it was the keys she wanted to leave behind. There were too many, one for the front and back door, one for the basement, and one for each set of bars on all the windows. Together those keys crowded the thin clip, and caused my mother to fight with them day after day, trying to figure out which was which. She only had to worry about one key now, and she didn’t even bother bringing it with her today. It rested on the kitchen table, silently beyond the un-locked door.
The air was fresh with newness. Feathery seeds blew in the breezes, seeking freedom and a new place to take root and raise their leaves to drink in the sun. I plucked loose grasses from the hill and stuck them into mounds of sand. I drew spirals with my toes, and surrounded them with grey pebbles. My fingers got stronger as they gripped at the possibilities. I looked out at the beach again and saw that it was strewn with more than I could hold, but I smiled in knowing that I could try, without my mother waking in fear.