A wave washes onto the sand. It will pull back out, leaving nothing.
Waiting.
Surges of water rush where once there were footprints. Indents of life. Excitement, joy, happiness; A slice, for once, of what everyone else seems to have.
Wiped clean. Dragged out to sea. Gone.
Now, only the blank, level sand, as though nothing had ever marred it. As if feet had never walked there.
Perhaps the memory tells lies.
Waiting.
The tide is cold and discriminating, and chooses its footprints. Some were meant to be forever stolen by the waves,
Before they can be realised. Before they are truly seen, felt.
Do not scream. The sea cannot hear.
Do not lash out. It does not feel.
Do not cry. It is already full.
Keep walking for the day the low tide comes, when footprints will stay.
For the day when a backwards glance reveals a trail –
Remembered, acknowledged by the waves.
Keep walking.
The tide does not speak. Only time will tell.
Waiting.
Mardra
Oh Rebekah, I love the pace of your work.
Your writing begs to be read outloud.
“Do not cry. It is already full.”
Awesome. Thank you for sharing this.
Rebekah Anderson replied
Thank you so much, Mardra! You really are a sweethreart!
Joseph DiFranc...
This is an excellent use of metaphor. Very strong. How footprints symbolize the echoes of life left behind – fleeting, others more lasting. Wow. Incredible.
Rebekah Anderson replied
Thanks so much. I really appreciate that you took the time to read it.