Warm on the Shore

It had been a long time since she last strolled along that shore in the evening’s failing light.  Her dark jeans hugged her strong legs and her white shirt clung to her youthful and tapering figure.  Around her, a man's gray-checkered flannel shirt ironically whipped in tandem with her graceful hair, as both were caught in the restless and salty wind.  The long dock had been stripped and only its pillars congregated in a mute cluster strewn in the surf.

  

She could almost hear them talking amongst themselves, between the sounds of gulls calling, waves rushing, and her own feet scuffing against the grains of sand.  In the gentle tumult of waves and wind, the buoy bell knelled its lonely ringing weaving across the waves.  Her mouth curled into a gentle smile and then they spoke up, with salty breath out of their black wooden mouths.

            “It’s a bit windy for stroll, isn’t it?”

            “All alone tonight?”

            “Isn’t that shirt a little big for you?”

            “I think you’re growing bigger and more beautiful every day.”

            “Oh come on, Grandpa,” she said as she held his hand years ago, “I’ll always be your little girl.”  She held her shoes in her right hand and his robust yet wrinkled hand in her left as both their bare feet shuffled along the shore.  They would often stop to pick up shells, listen to the music of the wind and buoy, or just to look past the gawking black pillars to the peaceful horizon made of restless waters.

            “It sure is windy tonight isn’t it, sweetie?”  The wind had tickled goosebumps all along her arms and she hugged his belly as best she could with shells and stones in her tiny fists.  He looked down on his granddaughter as the wind blew her locks of hair about and a gentle chill crept in.  He rubbed her arms a bit longer, but then took off his grey flannel and wrapped his princess in a humble robe.  She smiled up at his tired face and wise eyes as he stood in his white undershirt.

            “It looks good on you . . . How about you keep it?”

            “I’ll take good care of it, Grandpa.”

            “Good, sweetie, I’m sure it’ll keep you warm” he said.
                                                'Even when I can’t,' he thought.

            “It’s still warm, Grandpa,” she said with a smile still gracing her face and her arms still lost in its warm folds after all these years.

            “It still looks good on you,” piped up the pillar. The flannel flapped in the evening breeze.  The lonely buoy tolled.  In the rich silence, upon which the wind and waves rushed, the pillars stood black and mute. She hugged the folds more and more snuggly around her.  The flannel held her all these years, still soft, still warm, still saying, “You’re growing bigger and more beautiful every day.”