beach path

I tripped on the root of a tree along the path and smelled that warm familiar smell of dirt as my chin cut into the dirt. A smell like the stuff that gets caught on the hem of one’s overalls. A little bit like sweat, I remember, but sweeter. And in my ears echoing hard consonants and vowels, and softer ones too, “Liebestraum” whistled or hummed (culled from a musical past I wasn’t a part of) at the sink surrounded by yellow dishes.
Further along the path I found a rotting bird with worms and flies in and out the eye sockets, and the back of my arms tickled at the touch of hawk feathers traced lightly at my back, half asleep and buried in pillows. Bathed in buttery light.
I picked up a white stone, a grey stone, and a black stone and shoved them deep into my pocket. I ran my fingers along them in a row, three bony knuckles, smooth but colder.
At the end the path broadened into beach, spotted with pairs and buckets and towels, a few umbrellas. A car drove by with a looped yellow sticker, “Support the Troops” stuck to the windshield. And if it had been the year before I would have made a snarky remark, but I was alone this time.
I walked down to the surf with sandals in my hand and noticed that my knee was bleeding a little from my fall. The water was cold against my shins, and I wrapped my arms around me tight, my fingers raking at flesh trying to get all the way around. But it didn’t feel the same.