Her One Release

Once a year.

Just once a year she comes here to walk with her bare toes skimming along the sand, pushing aside fragments of rock that were once boulders and microscopic bits of shell like she'd once run through the universe; stars, planets, asteroids and people shifted in her wake.

She watches the tide rush in to erase the path she's thus far taken, leaving her a clean slate to walk across. As it rushes back out, for just a moment, she can feel the flow of time and remembers what it was like to have it run through her.

She trails the edge of her largest toe through the sand, forming cicles and shapes she never quite understood but still new intimately. The waves wash them away and she draws them over and over again. An exercise in futility or an example of the nature of the world as she come to know it. Nothing last. Cars and concrete, broken up and chucked, worn over time and dragged over land and sea by air and water until it ends up here. A never ending expanse of canvas for artwork that lasts only seconds.

A breeze rushes in from over the water carrying the smell of salt. She breathes it in deepy, relishing the foreign scent. The wind passes over her ears, whipping her hair, and she hears distant voices and whispers of thousands of years of history flying past her. In the midst of the scattered noise she thinks she hears a voice more familiar than any other. Hears three words that were ripped apart by the wind so long ago. In the end it's only noise.

The sun is setting behind her as she turns to leave. Another day over. Another year passed. Tears spill down her cheeks and she lets them run freely. This is the only time she allows them and the only time they come.

Once a year.