Beach Day
I go to the beach in seasons that don’t make sense, that have plenty of parking available and no amenities open for business and no need for lifeguards in tiny red swatches of fabric on duty.
Originally published in the climate poetry anthology, Mother Nature Burns, from Sundays Mornings at the River.
I go to the beach in seasons that don’t make sense, that have plenty of parking available and no amenities open for business and no need for lifeguards in tiny red swatches of fabric on duty.
I go to the beach when all my clothes don’t match and it doesn’t matter that there will be sand in the wool socks that are snug in shoes with laces and good ankle support.
I go to the beach when there is snow and biting wind in a place that my mind can’t fathom what it knows and remembers and is socialized to and ingrained as a place of warmth and joy touching my salty burning skin.
I go to the beach when no one is there, no one who matters anyway, no one who shows up without shame or any body image issues and who can actually sit there and enjoy the mixed company of friends’ and strangers’ eyes not having a shirt on.
I go to the beach in daydream prompted by invitation and even then I feel exposed and afraid and ugly, and I make up any excuse that keeps me out of the sunlight and social life of the summer people.
I go to the beach wishing I could meet a stranger who can become my person when we sit on a log of driftwood at night, and I know they are my person when we lean in, when we kiss with runny noses, when I feel them smile into my face.
I go to the beach of only black sand and rocky shore because I am in a body made of bog and highland and steppe and all-pine, and my sun is low on the horizon and like me maybe doesn’t even show itself for months at a time.
I go to the beach of memory of innocence of childhood of family of before it all turned dark, of wet sand architectures and boogie boards and aloe lotion and boardwalks and kool aid and state line potato chips and horseflies and cousins and seaweed and laughter and thunderstorms and uncles buried to their necks and plastic buckets and broken crab shells.