Sand Stories

The memories now return in violent half-scenes, most of the time disjointed. The fragments appear and disappear haphazardly as though they possessed wicked, capricious minds. Even now, I can see her beautiful face by the beach, the lone shaft of the Bean tower behind her, gazing at the uneven waters. I can recall the wind on her face; the soft smoothing caress on her chin. Then, as we held hands, marching through the sand, I can recall her tiny voice whispering to my ears that she would love to die; right then and there, with me, and she was would have no regrets. The last bit of torturous memory was always that solitary tyre, the one leaning on a bed of yellow sand, alone, away from everything. I always recall myself looking straight at it with utter disbelief, unable to feel my feet and strongly aware that the worst has befallen me. But what worst? Today, I still don't remember fully, what happened. I was only told she was no more and that our car had tumbled more times than a gymnast could. Each time I remember this, I look at my legs. They look back at me; straight faced and malicious. They seem to be laughing at me.