the beach.

This one is for Margaret. (: Maybe I'll actually try this time. I'm typing this from how I see it in my mind.

I'm standing ankle deep in the clear water, white froth licking at my toes as it recedes, small air bubbles popping on the yellow sand. Closing my eyes, I take in a deep, salty breath, the particles in the air dancing on my tongue. The air surrounding me is chilly, much like the early tide.
Dawn is fast approaching, the yellow sun is burning on the distant horizon, casting orange and reds upon the light, fluffy clouds and a triangle of light on the rolling ocean. Dolphins leap out of the green water, fins glistening in the fresh daylight as they arch high and dive back in just beyond the drop off, sometimes closer. I can feel in my bones that if I just stepped in far enough, I could swim with them, feel the magic of their innocence surrounding me, but I don't.
The next crashing wave brings shells, a few sharp ones scraping at the top of my feet, though I barely feel it. I have to pick up and move before my feet are covered in heavy, wet sand. Staring down, I look at the footprints I'm leaving. Flat, square marks are the reminders that my feet are different. With the coming tide, the prints are washed away, holes of burrowing sand fleas replacing them.
I think back to the years when I would sit in the sand and do nothing but catch the sand fleas with my cousins, but knowing it's all in the past, I focus on the quick, labored breathing of an early runner. His sneakers dig into the wet, grey-brown sand, his legs pumping to pull them free as water rushes in to fill the imperfections of the flat beach. Watching him pass, I stare down the beach.
Remnants of a sand castle are high up in hopes of escaping the high tide. Obvious failure is present when you consider the nearest wall is a small hill of sand next to bucket towers and misshapen fortress walls. Smiling sadly, I turn back to the climbing sun.
It's risen considerably in the past moments, shading the green ocean in vibrant colors, glittering almost red on the wet skins of the dolphins leaping down the shore. Inhaling the scents of algae and sea water, I hear the click of a tab puncturing the top of a can. Turning, I already have an idea of what I'll find.
My dad is standing behind me, hat positioned on his head, chest bare, shorts a tad too tight, a beer already clenched in one hand, a fishing pole and chair poised in another. "'Mornin'," he says, unfolding the rainbow striped chair and plopping into it.
"Catch me a flea?"
And I do. I dig my hands into the thick, moist sand, searching for the fleas swimming in with each crash of a wave. Small ones slip through my fingers, but I catch a decent one and hand it over. He digs his beer into the sand with one hand and begins to bait the hook. Standing to cast, he pitches the line in and I smile. Maybe today won't be like the rest...