Waves lapped at her toes as she stood in the wet sand and looked across the sound to the island. A small plume of smoke rose from the chimney, hidden behind black spruce and birch trees.
She could see the canoe tied to the island's dock, rocking gently with the waves.
The image of the waves coming in both directions unearthed a memory or feeling she had kept buried for quite some time. Tim's waves had pushed in one direction and her's had surge in the opposite.
"What was in the middle. What pushed them apart," she wondered.
Now she she was on the beach, and he stayed on that little island of his.
She picked up her shoes and turned and walked up past the sand of the beach and away.


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CraigTowsley (joined almost 13 years ago)
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I think this site is like a power juicer to the armadillo-skinned oranges of writer's block.

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