It was a quiet place. The sand blew across the beach and piled up in little dunes; allowing me to imagine that I was in the desert if I kept my back to the ocean. The silly white and grey birds swirled in the sky above and squabbled with each other like children. I watched them and wondered what it would be like to fly up there in the clouds. The salt lifted from the sea and I could taste it with every breath. Laying down and stretching myself out; I pressed my cheek into the moist sand. I could feel the heart beat of the ocean’s waves.
On the hill, the old house squatted in a state of disrepair. despite its shabbiness, I loved the place. It was the center of the island and it was more home then the house in which I was born. It’s faded picket fence leaned and poked up in crooked angles. The stone steps sunk and shifted into the soil; leaving the walk way slanted. The windows were smeared with grim where years of little hands leaned against the glass to look out at the water and the boats that road it.
My family no longer owns that little house and I can no longer visit there, but I do so in my mind. As I drift off to sleep, I recall the large night sky filled with vibrant stars and a pregnant moon. When my dreams settle over me, I take up running down the winding path. I stop at the edge of the beach, where the sand encroaches into the grass.