The Beach

I heard the waves crashing relentlessly on the random outgrowths of rock. The blue-green algae forming a veneer on the otherwise inhospitable rock gleamed in the sunshine. As I sat there on the sand, book in hand, memories started to flood back almost uncontrollably. Everything there reminded me of you. I can still taste you in my mouth—sand and salted foam in perfect symphony in my mouth. Bits of shell caught the sun and glowed as if a thousand fireflies had gotten under its skin. Maybe it was representing what we felt years ago.
A lone crab crawled up my leg and I got up shrieking wildly. It reminded me far too much of your touch.
The gypsy woman came too—the mad psychotic fool who predicted we would live happily ever after. I do not know if your fairy tale came true; mine died violently with your passing. I suppressed an urge to throttle her to death as she came back to me with a smile. She looked, I raised my eyebrows, she raised hers. Recognition set in. She frowned and walked away before I could say anything. I wondered if maybe life is cyclic the way the Mayans theorized thousands of years ago. Maybe I would end up where I started.
I had no time to find out. I had a life to conquer before starting out again. Dropping my robe on the sand, I walked past the thrashing foam and into the waves.
They were right. Life is cyclic.