I spent the last 5 days at my parents beach house in Sandbridge. The house I grew up in. It’s quiet there. The open windows let in a cool breeze. Salty air calms the nerves. Always there’s the sound of not-so-distant waves crashing with a lulling woosh-a-woosh-a. When the wind picks up, you’ll hear the ringing and clinking of lazy wind-chimes on every front porch.
Electric green hummingbirds dive in the front yard, looking for flowers, settling then jetting off.
Dragonflies amble. They’re large and shiny like mother-of-pearl. They seem heavy and barely capable of flight in the end-of-Summer sunshine.
Yellow and black striped spiders weave intricate knots all over the waving bay and juniper bushes.
I have so many memories here. It’s surreal, this place. I walk along the grassy pathway towards the beach, lined with passionflower and bramble rose and prickly pear. I remember being 12 years old, rather awkwardly proportioned with long dirty blonde hair. Carrying a large pink plastic inner tube over my head like an oversized neck pillow. My brother, with unruly straight brown hair and laughing eyes, beside me. Barefoot and squinting against the electric noon sun.