Red Sand

I wrote this about a time when I was truly happy, I was vacationing in Prince Edward Island, off the east coast of Canada with my mom, little brother and my grandparents.

Looking out on the water of the Atlantic Ocean, I can feel the wind blow against my skin. The invisible hands of the warm breeze brush against my skin; my hairs stand up on end, I can feel each movement like tiny strings gently pulling against my flesh, now puckered up like a goose. The wind carries with it the smell of salt, it sticks to my face, invades my olfactory senses. I can smell only the salt, but then the salt leaves, and my nose is filled with nothing again. The wind carries the salt to me in waves. It blows, gently stroking my skin, my senses surrounded by the unique smell of the sea. It plays with my hair, moving it up and around, tugging and making it dance to the song of the ocean. Then it leaves me, alone, bereft, lacking scent, only to return again and again, constant as the waves the wash against the shore.

 My feet are in the bright red sand, I can feel each grain of sand between my toes, on my foot, up my ankle. They roll around from the wind, move in between each crevice, rough, but some are smooth. They feel like I am standing in mud, smooth and cooling, but filling every nook and cranny they can find. I lift my arm to take a drink from the raspberry cordial in my hand. The condensation along the side drips slowly down the bottle. It lands on my skin, the cold a sharp contrast to the warm breeze gently playing with my hair. My tongue is alight with the flavour of raspberry, the bubbly drink sending prickles along my mouth and throat, down my esophagus, before disappearing. I look out onto the water, the wind gently caressing me, my only companion. Solitude.