We'd been trekking up the side of the hill, through the dense green trees and rich black soil on Easter morning, while I struggled to keep the pancakes and maple syrup down. But he'd taken my hand and stayed with me while the rest of them had hurried ahead, and when we all reached the top he nuzzled a chin into my shoulder and together we'd watched the outgoing tide hitting the curved yellow sandbanks and like aqua ribbons flowing out to a deep blue sea.
It'd always been like this.
We walked down the sandy steps, meeting hard compacted sand and the lapping edges of the river. We walked, the others already ahead, his hand in mine. We made our way along the thinning edges of sand till we found ourselves in knee deep water, wading to the edges of the sand bar and crossing the rocks. Once around we found ourselves on sand again, and dodging blue bottles we picked up shells and wrote our names in the sand. I wondered as he scribed my name besides his on the sea shore why the waves swept over them and took it away.
The weather was different today. My toes were wet by the white wash of waves and my pockets felt heavy with the seashells I'd collected. My pale blue sarong flapped around my shins and my sandcastle sunk into the sea. Raindrops dinted the beach, and alone, I made my way to the hill. The spot where we'd written our names was well and truly gone. The sand wasn't even familiar.