The Winter Sand

Storms come across the Pacific, the waves barely undulating in the open ocean, then toppling onto the beach, all their fury unleashed just moments before their demise. In the summer, the sand absorbs the water, a narrow band forming where a beachcomber can find solid footing. A dash into the waves, followed by a brief journey through the upper reaches of the beach. The warm air and dry sand, the cool waves and wet sand - the balance is perfect.

The winter sand is not so accommodating - or so he thought as he wiggled his bare feet in the cold, gritty beach and wondered, How long before my toes freeze? The sun was going down and he felt the first drops of rain from the storm that was brewing just offshore. He shivered, deeply, and trudged back up the beach. Stopping to sit on a weathered old log, he brushed ineffectually at the sand on his feet. Finally giving up, he slipped on his socks and boots. The sun fell just below the roiling clouds and became a light at the end of a tunnel, casting the shore in strong relief.

It’s time to head back, he thought, shivering again as the wind joined the rain. She’ll be waiting. He pulled up the hood of his parka, marching along the trail away from the setting sun. The pounding surf matched the rhythm of his feet, until the cabin came into view, the light of the now dying sun giving it a gloomy red glow. His pace had kept him just ahead of the storm, but the wind-driven rain now arrived in full force, and he raced up the steps.

“Be sure to wipe your feet.” He had barely gotten inside, the storm slapping the screen door against his back. He looked across the room, at the woman seated at the table, the jigsaw pieces scattered before her. A quick glance made him wonder - had any of the pieces moved while he had made his pilgrimage to the beach? She smiled, as she turned a piece slowly, hovering over one of the few places where the pieces had coalesced. “The mat’s outside, you know.”

He backed out, wishing he had brought his Gore-tex parka instead of this soft one. Fleece is what you need, she had said, when he had packed for the trip. The rain drops mocked her advice, pummeling his back, as he scraped as much sand from his boots as he could. Ah, to heck with it, he thought, slipping them off. He again pushed open the door, leaving his boots out on the porch. They can always dry by the fire.

“Close the door. It’s cold out there.” She held the same piece, hovering over the same place, still not looking up. He walked over to the fireplace and turned his back to soak up the warmth, but his wet parka slowed its progress. Winter afternoons, always so cold. He closed his eyes. And so dark. Her humming brought his eyes open, and so he crossed over to the table. Still she held the piece, finally setting it down and picking up another one. The box cover showed an autumn scene, a red barn and a field bordered by trees with red and orange and yellow leaves. This piece was mottled green - a tree whose leaves had yet to turn? She had the same thought, placing it in what looked like the puzzle’s forested area, other possible candidates nearby.

He looked at the clock. Almost five. Almost time for me to- He took his parka off, draping it over the back of the chair facing her, and sat down. She had found more green pieces, and a forest was taking shape. He watched, the fire crackling, the rain pelting the roof and windows. They sat in silence until the clock sounded, five times.

“Don’t you have something to say to me?” she said without looking up. He reached across the jigsaw puzzle, taking her free hand. She looked at him now, her eyes framed by her grey hair, the wrinkles around her mouth deepening as a wry smile crossed her face. “It’s that time, you know.” They stared across the table at one another, for just a few moments more.

Finally, he spoke. “Will you be my wife?” he asked, squeezing her hand tight, feeling the well-worn ring on her finger. Her smile deepened. “You’ve asked me that question on this day for each of the past forty-two years, and I’ve given you the same answer each time,” she said. “Don’t you know it by heart?”

“Yes,” he said, his own smile breaking out, his weathered hands now holding both of hers. “But I never get tired of hearing it from you.”

“Only if you’ll be my husband,” she said. “Happy anniversary, my darling.”

“Happy anniversary, my dear,” he replied, still holding both her hands. “Quite a storm we’ve got this year, quite a storm.”

She looked down at her puzzle, picking up a new piece, turning it and turning it. He stayed at the table, the fire’s heat finally him bringing warmth. The rain pounded the cabin roof, but his feet were safe from its fury. Still, he wondered, what am I going to do with all that sand between my toes?