Our Beach

The Gulf water is calm this morning, the sounds of the tiny waves breaking on the sand are soothing. I’m standing on the deck, looking at the beach, turning my head slowly from left to right as if I might see her. I’m working on a plan to go down the 15 steps that would put my bare feet in the hot sand. For years, I watched her walk the sands, water kissing her ankles, her private thoughts my unsolved mystery.

Occasionally, she would bend over to pick up a shell and examine it. I loved that. In the morning light, it never failed to reveal her beauty, her near perfect figure. She caught me looking once and smiled. I saw her talking to a man on the beach one morning, seemingly deep in conversation. The man was much older. I asked her what he had to say. “Try the butter pecan the next time you visit Hemingway’s”

He was right.

I almost didn’t come to the beach this year. My sister rented the place for me behind my back. She handed me the keys last week and said, “If you don’t go, you will be twice as miserable. You have to walk the beach. Look for her. It’s what you want to do isn’t it?”

She was right.

Now that I’m here, staring out at the water when I’m not eying the beach, I remember I didn’t pack sunscreen. It makes me cry. A cool breeze dries my tears. She always packed the sunscreen and insisted we wear it constantly. She’s been gone now for three months, a victim of a ridiculous accident. It was the kind of thing that would have made us laugh were it not for the ending. I found her when I came home from work. Traci was lying there, a comical look on her face. For a split second, I thought my love was playing a practical joke. No, she would never do such a thing, never.

We started coming to this beach the first year we were married, staying at the same small condo every year. We worked hard and enjoyed unimaginable good fortune. We could easily have bought a much larger place of our own. We talked about it one time and she said, “The memories, the deep feelings we share in this little place, aren’t transferrable.”  

She was right. We never discussed it again.

I see a woman in a bathing suit approaching the long stairway that I can’t seem to navigate. I recognize her and I know the question she will ask. I am not ready. I don’t dare say the words aloud. This beach is my last defense against the truth. I take one last look for Traci, looking left and right. I turn and walk back into my condo. I’ll do better tomorrow.

I know I’m right.