We are beachcombers. We two cast our gaze wide over the strandline, plundering shingle and shale for treasure hidden in plain sight. The gradations of blue on the shells of bicuspids, the frosted smoothness of oncewerebottles glass, a couple of oh-so-precious cowrie shells and a piece of driftwood which, when held at certain angles, reveals the shape of a mermaid. We carry our trawl, happy and satisfied with what the tide had left behind. The sea’s gifts for those willing to take the time to walk the shore in quiet, patient contemplation.
We make our way back up to our blanket, a red tartan travel rug held down by a few waveworn pebbles to ensure the wind didn’t claim it for its own. We spread our small treasures out onto the red tartan, scattering the grains of sand that were clinging to shell, glass, driftwood, pebble, as well as our hands. Our hands… palms speckled with tiny particles of shells and stones, ruddy red from the sharp wind that blew in across the coast, and each left hand wearing a matching gold band on the fourth finger. We slump down on either side of our precious collection and the easy silence which spanned whole ages, continues as we stare out to sea, the hypnotic sight of the breakers throwing themselves on the shore invading our consciousness and penetrating our soul.
Until…
“57 years.”
“What?”
“57 years. That’s how many years we’ve been married.”
“Oh, yes. So it is.”
“Doesn’t feel like it, does it?”
“Doesn’t it?”
“Well, not to me, anyway.”
“How’s it supposed to feel?”
“Don’t know… Not like this. It’s that elasticity of time, isn’t it?”
“Is it?”
“Yeah. It’s like when you look back at our years together it’s like no time at all has passed, and yet certain moments during the living of those years seemed to stretch on and on. Some of those moments I thought would never end.”
“Like what?”
