QUIET - a 20-minute prose exercise

Here’s my 20-minute prose exercise for today. If you’d like to share yours, you can email me here. I’m working on getting a place to share them publicly (anonymously) on here if that’s something you’d like. If not, I’m happy to provide private feedback via email.

Not sure where to start? Read about the project here.

QUIET

The sea air blanketed the beach in a cool comfort. The white caps broke gently on the sand.

You sat next to me with your pad and your pencils, the scratching of your doodling satisfied a mental itch.

A man played fetch with his dog, throwing the stick in the water over and over.

Three children were building sandcastles in the sun.

I closed my eyes and breathed in the saline air. Nice. And. Slow.

A beach ball bounced off my leg, bringing me back to the immediate.

“Sorry!” a young college couple said, embarrassed, as they collected their ball.

But I didn’t mind.

I watched you draw the ships on the horizon a little longer and got to my feet. I brushed the sand off my legs and started to walk.

Gulls cawed overhead. I could hear the distant sounds of joy from the boardwalk carnival rides, the faint smell of French fries and pretzels lingered.

You clutched my hand and walked beside me. We shared a smile, a laugh. You started to run along the edge of the tide line, leaping in the air when the cold water tickled your toes.

I followed. My cheeks hurt from smiling so much.

We ran forever until my lungs could keep up no longer. I collapsed onto the sand, still filled with joy. You looked back at me and waved, but you didn’t slow down. You didn’t stop.

I slowed my breathing enough to calm my racing heart. The noise of the day drew back until all was quiet.

I looked around the beach. It was empty. The only sound was the roar and hiss of the water caressing the sand.

I looked at my hands. How wrinkled they’d become. It took me a minute, but I got back to my feet, my chest burning like that time when I was eight and I went running in the cold winter air and caught pneumonia.

My hand clutched my chest, and I slowed my stride.

The carnival looked weathered and abandoned. The heavenly scents of fried foods were only a memory, and the sandcastles had tumbled long ago.

And you were gone. Long ago, I know, but it was hard to remember. Time was out of place. First it was then and then turned to now. Fragments of one spliced into the other.

The dog brought me his stick to throw into the water. I did, but he never returned.

I returned to our blanket, your sketchbook flapping in the wind. I collected our things and strolled back to the parking lot.

It, too, was quiet.

I drove home and put everything back where it belonged: the blanket in the wash to be cleaned, folded and set back in the closet for next year. Your sketchbook on the mantle next to your urn. And me back to my quiet house with my quiet bed and my quiet kitchen.

Waiting for a noise to break the silence. Waiting to see you once again.