Essie is about 4 standing at the edge of the Atlantic Ocean.
The brink, the edge and her toes are sinking into the sand and the water splashes
over her feet and she has a terrible feeling that she is sinking deeper but really
her feet are making more of an impression. She is wearing what can only be
described as a salmony pink and white horizontal pin-stripe tank suit which feels like it is a wool blend because it is scratchy. It must have been a hand-me-down
from a friend who purchased the odd blend at Macy’s (and quickly discovered its
intrinsic impracticality, therefore discarded it immediately) or it was pulled out
of a drawer from the Paramus NJ Alexander’s- the one with the massive tile sky streaked
with lots of cobalt blue and red screeching across the white façade.
The wave, which was probably no taller than mid-calf, took her
down and for the first time ever she discovered that wet sand on wet legs cannot
be easily brushed off. It sticks and feels like unwanted wool stockings. She falls
on the sand and cries embarrassed, helpless and very uncomfortably lifts herself
up and wipes the mess off her legs. Sea foam turns into quicksand sinking her little
feet deeper and sending her deeper into hysterics.
The tears turn to laughter and she is suddenly taller and all
grown up. The beach is gone, replaced by a steering wheel and she is driving upstate
past farms and eighteen-wheelers. The music is on the radio and it is
chattering away. Gradually, her car lifts up and floats toward the clouds. It is
a beautiful day and she has a great view from the air. She isn’t sure where she
is headed next, but there isn’t anything she can do about it but wait and see.
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