TOES

She came for the water. But stayed in the sand.

The girl sat on the beach watching the other kids play in the waves.

She loved the beach. She loved the water. She loved the sun.

Her favorite meal was always the same, cucumber, tomato, brown bread, and butter, with just a hint of sand.

All week she waited for this: endured classes, homework, chores, the dull rhythm of days that led here, Saturday, the beach.

They lived only a few blocks from the sea.

Her mother’s time in the water was graceful and calm, washing the week away. It was a weekly ritual that allowed the days behind her to dissolve so the next could unfold.

She learned to follow.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d gone into the water.

She liked the idea of it, always telling her mother as the sun slipped low, Maybe next week I’ll join you in the waves.

That would be lovely, her mother would reply.

But she never did.

Each weekend she returned to her towel under the umbrella, a book in her lap, her toes digging deep into the warm sand.

And she knew no greater pleasure.