The gulls cry. The waves and the winds of mid-July rinse the sand as I lie on the beach stretching my fingers, reaching and touching white foam. It recoils just as my fingertips graze it. Back into the ocean. The gulls cry and the lighthouse flashes, calling home. The sky is empty yet filled with everything. The salt and the sand polish stones as smooth as my memory of the touch of her cheeks.
literally stories 