I find them everywhere, the grains of sand. In the slots between the wide wooden floorboards in the kitchen. Mid July finds me swearing at the grains. They stick to my feet and get dragged from room to room. The annoyance of sand on my feet, fresh out of the tub... bits of sand finding their way into carpets and shoes.
But by February, even November, I long to find stray sand. Hanging out in a bucket, or a coat pocket. The bottom of a fabric grocery bag that was used to lug sand toys and beach towels to and from adventure days on the beach. The grins put smiles on my face as I remember the cry of gulls, and the warmth of the sun on my skin, the salt soaked bathing suits and SPF 30 drenched faces. The memories bring warmth when quilts won't do. The glimpses of sunshine, or the sunset of a perfect August evening.
So next summer I will not dust my sandals off, clapping them as a call to forget, to leave it all behind. The grains... I will not sweep each one. I will remember, each summer, the cold of winter and the grain of sand... poetry for the hope of spring.