Day 115 Ruminating And Writing

Sand

It’s that weird wind at the end of the summer that is still hot with a hint of salt, moisture, and the coldness to come. I live for those winds. I watch as it sweeps over the long, strong hay and lifts the sand in the air, making little swirls. If I close my eyes, I can hear all the laughter and the sounds of people who once stood there on the shoreline, basking in the sun. But now there’s only the wind and the sea and the distant call of the seagulls.

This is my island. I was born he...