Once upon a time, in a quaint coastal town, there lived a young girl named Lily. Lily had a heart full of compassion and a spirit that radiated kindness. She believed in the power of small acts of goodness and how they could create a ripple effect of positivity in the world. Lily's town was known for its picturesque beaches and vibrant community. But there was one thing that troubled Lily deeply - the pollution that was slowly suffocating the ocean. Determined to make a difference, she decided to take matters into her own hands. Armed with a pair of gloves and a determination to clean up the beaches, Lily started organizing weekly beach cleanups. She would wake up early every Saturday morning and rally her neighbors, friends, and even strangers to join her in her mission. Together, they would comb the shores, picking up litter and plastic waste, one piece at a time. Word of Lily's beach cleanups spread throughout the town, and soon, more and more people started joining her cause. What started as a small group of volunteers quickly grew into a community movement. People of all ages and backgrounds came together, united by their love for the ocean and their desire to protect it. As the beaches became cleaner, Lily realized that raising awareness was just as important as cleaning up. She started giving educational talks at schools and community events, teaching others about the impact of plastic pollution on marine life and the environment. Her passion and knowledge inspired others to make changes in their own lives, reducing their plastic consumption and adopting more sustainable habits. One day, a local artist named Mia approached Lily with an idea. She suggested creating an art installation made entirely from the plastic waste they had collected. Lily loved the idea, and together, they transformed the collected plastic into a stunning sculpture that depicted the beauty of the ocean and the importance of preserving it. The sculpture became a symbol of hope and a powerful visual reminder of the impact of human actions on the environment. It was displayed in the town square, attracting visitors from far and wide. People marveled at its beauty and were moved by the message it conveyed. News of Lily's efforts reached the ears of an environmental organization that was looking for young ambassadors to join their cause. Impressed by Lily's dedication and the impact she had made in her community, they offered her a position as a youth advocate. Lily eagerly accepted, seeing it as an opportunity to amplify her voice and create an even greater impact. As a youth advocate, Lily traveled to different towns and cities, sharing her story and inspiring others to take action. She worked with local governments, urging them to implement better waste management systems and promote eco-friendly practices. Her tireless efforts caught the attention of national media, and soon, Lily's message reached millions of people across the country. Years later, as Lily stood on a stage receiving an award for her environmental activism, she looked back at her journey with a heart full of gratitude. She realized that her small acts of goodness had sparked a movement that had transformed not only her town but also the hearts and minds of people everywhere. Lily's story serves as a reminder that every individual has the power to create change, no matter how small their actions may seem. It is through our collective efforts and the belief in our ability to make a difference that we can create a better and more sustainable world for future generations. And so, the story of Lily and her beach cleanups reminds us that the power to change the world lies within each of us. With compassion, determination, and a little bit of sand between our toes, we can create a wave of positive change that will wash away the pollution and bring back the beauty of our precious oceans.

When I was a kid, my father had to work hard to make ends meet. He loved to travel, and he looked for opportunities without spending a lot of money, usually by working while traveling for the job. Sometimes we traveled for months, unlike other people who had maybe 15 days per year of vacation. Dad and I were close; he often took me with him, especially to the sea. We loved the sea and fishing. Each time I went with Dad, it was an adventure because he taught me a lot about life, and respect, especially towards animals. He taught me to observe and appreciate how animals and people share the space and how we should live together. The summer of 1974, I was six years old, and Dad took the whole family to Colmuyao, a small town on the central coast of Chile. It is a humble and beautiful town, with very affectionate people, most of whom are farmers and fishermen. The streets are stone and earth, and the houses are adobe. Surrounded by trees and a beautiful river that flows into the ocean, the area is dreamlike. The weather there is usually cold and windy; however, I found it very pleasant. The beach is huge, with coarse gray sand that feels like a foot massage. Colmuyao was our paradise and whenever we could, we went there to spend some time. However, this first adventure in Colmuyao was burned into my memory, for a very special reason. When we arrived at the beach that day, we saw birds lying on the sand. My dad said, "Look! Those are penguins!" It can't be, I thought; they live in Antarctica. We approached very carefully, and there they were, calm and close to each other. As we got closer, they noticed our presence and began to alert each other. Imagine a hundred penguins rhythmically singing a song that is a cross between a trill and a squawk. Dad asked us to sit in the sand and move forward very slowly without making a sound. We were so close that we could almost touch them. They were beautiful birds; their black and white feathers were bright and delicate, and they seemed dressed for an exceptional occasion in their “tuxedos.” I didn't hold back my desire and I tried to touch one of them, which caused a colossal stampede of well-dressed birds rushing into the sea. It was a lot of fun to watch them run with their wings spread and taking small leaps. They are very brave, I thought; the sea was raging and very cold, yet they jumped in with energy and decisiveness. I impulsively wanted to go after them, but my dad stopped my madness. I was astonished. It was like being in the middle of a dream or with my own Jacques Cousteu filming a documentary. I would never have dreamed of being so close to such beautiful and rare birds. My eyes were filled with their deep colors. Every detail was amazing, and watching them walk with difficulty and then, watching them ride the waves and fly in the water at an impressive speed, grabbed my attention completely. I felt like I could stay there forever without ceasing to marvel. Every day, we revisited the penguin colony. My family and I learned to tiptoe among them, and we often sat very close to them. We never touched or hugged them; although we really wanted to, we didn't want to scare them and make them flee again. On another day, my dad and some of my brothers fished from the shore of the beach while my youngest brother and I played with the penguins. I can't remember exactly how it happened, but we found one with a wound on one of his wings. Dad took it carefully to the house where we were staying. The poor penguin was very scared. My dad cleaned his wound and bandaged his wing. For many days, the penguin was with us; my dad fed him fish while his wound healed. I spent a lot of time staying with him and many times my dad allowed me to feed him fish or other seafood. The first time that I fed him, he approached me very carefully, and with a quick big peck he snatched the fish out of my hand. That was amazing. After more attempts, he trusted me, and received the food with more confidence. Finally, after a few weeks, the penguin recovered his health, and my dad returned him to the colony. For a few days, we saw him walking among the other penguins, completely healthy. My dad had named him “Muñeco,” which means “doll,” in Spanish. I learned a lot about the penguins; actually, they've been one of my favorite birds since then. Seeing my father walk through the colony made me feel so proud of him and the time we spent that summer with Muñeco is one of my family's most treasured memories. Each time that I feel bad or wounded, for any reason, I close my eyes and take a trip in my mind to that beautiful beach. Surrounded by penguins, with my parents and brothers walking around that marvelous scenario under the cold summer sun, I always feel better. Colmuyao is my inner paradise, a place in my mind where I can run away when I need to find peace and gain balance again in my life.

The memory of that moment has lived in my mind for years; a snippet of the most peace I had ever experienced shelved away in the coves of my recollections. If I close my eyes, think just hard enough, and take a deep breath I am suddenly there again. Not a detail of this memory has been lost. It is as pristine and crystal clear as the moment itself, and sometimes it seems to sparkle a bit with a gleam that seems to be the way my mind's eye records happiness. It is just a touch of light dancing across the edge of the memory in a manner that is magically similar to the way that the sunlight preformed a ballet upon the open ocean waters that moment in Avalon, New Jersey. I had arisen early that day and, leaving a note upon the counter, I left the small rental beach house where my aunt, cousin, grandparents, and family were still sleeping. My goal was simple: to find seashells. I ran a business painting seashells, so they were always something I was on the lookout for, and morning is the best time to find them. The sand of the beach was still cool beneath my feet, not yet heated by the rays of the rising sun. In one hand I held a bag for the shells and in the other my thrown together breakfast. The beach was practically empty. The morning was serene, quiet, and a stark contrast to about everything in my life. I walked a few blocks of beach north and reached the Townsend Inlet, the end of the Avalon beach. The Inlet was home to a long bridge which connected Avalon to the next New Jersey seaside peninsula. Between myself and the waters of the Inlet stood the stone jetty; a man-made sea-wall to prevent erosion. It was upon the rocks of the jetty that I sat to rest that morning. Seated on the cool rocks, I could see steaks of color illuminating the morning sky. The horizon began with coral hues which seamlessly blended into a pale blue. The clouds were coral too, kissed with tones of purple and grey. From where I sat, the beach that I had just traversed appeared to go on forever, as did the ocean that stretched as far as the eye could see making you understand why ancient peoples believed that to cross it would lead you to the Earth's end. It was then that I unpacked my breakfast: a salami and cheese sandwich and a glass of lemonade. Really it didn't make any sense to pack lunch meat for breakfast, but the last bagel that we had bought for the rental house was eaten the day prior. The lemonade was a sweet, tangy nectar on my tongue as it washed away the salami salty enough to rival the sea air. It was just me, my breakfast, and the eternal beach. That is my favorite moment; one which I still relive in my mind. For a moment too brief it was just me and Forever sitting side by side on Avalon's jetty. For a moment too short nothing mattered except the world in front of me. For a moment too quickly gone I was merely another grain of sand upon the beach's shore. As I reminisce on this particular memory, I recall the overwhelming tranquility, the simple finality of the moment. It was a moment in which I had accepted the fact that I was just another piece in the puzzle and a spectator to the grandeur of everything larger than myself. It was then that I realized no matter how small you feel, even if you are just a single grain of minuscule, weak, and volatile sand, the rocks of the jetty will always be there to stand strong when you yourself cannot.

In the morning, when the sun first rises and warms the gentle waves of the Pacific, a great fog rises towards the mountains. It reaches forward through canyons and over ridges, fingers desperately clinging from one rock, tree, creek, to the next. The sun rises higher and brings along the day's heat. The condensation breaks and dissipates, and the mountains ride goldengreen on the sun's columns of light. Come nightfall, the sun disappears, now hugging the great Pacific, and the chill comes back, and the ocean fog rises again from its domain under and overtop the waves. Its crawl this time unhindered, for what celestial authority watches it now but the weary moon? Six of us in a five-seater truck, the pressure of our bodies pressed against the others more than enough restraint to make up for the missing seat belt. The goal is in no mind. The goal is to see, to feel, to drive. The engine turns over and the lights come up. We take the king's road 101 to County Route N9, Kanan: Promised Land. The gateway to that land stands before us in its physical form as a stoplight, and inside of us as fear and hope, and a million lives we will never live. The fog obscures, but in that obscurity, forms become clearer because a new perspective arises. We are silent in front of the fog wall. The great red eye deems us ready; green. The engine hum now roars, and the night is ours. The canyon run, up and down, winding, tapered road, widening; a tunnel, another. Thousands descend and climb these mountains every day, towards leisure or business. Us? Our business? Leisure. We are fast, we accelerate out of turns, and the wind comes turbulent through the windows, blowing into our eyes, making a maelstrom of our hair. And the fog… The fog is an apparition, a ghost, a thousand-thousand ghosts, standing side by side, staring through hollow eyes, reminding us; these mountains were here before us, and they will be here after us, and we too will be eyes in the fog, staring at our scion , making their own way through the fog. Eventually, the winding ends, the geologies calm down and the final descent appears before us. The road bends gently downward, and a breath releases. We reach the end of the fog bank, and we are revealed to the coast. The wind seems less, though the mountains no longer rebuff the wind from the ocean. We turn down to a small lesser-known street, on a beach where there is some manner of seclusion even when faced with the expanse of the sea. Here it sprawls. The great treasure of the state of medleyed paradise. The cliffs and beaches, which to us seem trite, but are true in their beauties of resplendence and age. Now for us, as that roaring engine shifts down to a hum again, we are greeted by the old rolling, the barrel-down crash of the waves, and the airy simmer of its foam and the retraction and the push again. It calms us down and kisses coldly our feet and threatens to chew and swallow if we get any closer. Quaint is the ocean upon the shore, but unconsidered are the terrors that lay miles out; the storms and shipwrecks, the abyssal depths and mountainous waves. We are content with our gentle rolling shore. We make our way down, to coves each more secluded than the last. Each time we move the coastal bluffs grow taller over us and the incursions of the ocean grow deeper, and our beach narrows. We are one-by-one, weaving between coastal boulders, moving as a snake joined, not dead. The surf grows too close and the only direction forward is upward. Up we climb, a boulder risen from the beach, uneroded by the eternal surf, standing there, against the odds of a million years. This boulder, this rock, must be more than, must be willful and strong. Atop the rock, watching the ocean pool around us now, reaching the bluff, flooding our means of escape. We thank the rock for standing there despite everything, for providing our pant cuffs protection from the saltwater eddy. The ocean swirls beneath and one of us lights the end of a cigarette, the moon and her ocean reveal a beauty that is hidden to us by our own smallness, our focus on finding privacy, shying ourselves away. That sky lays me bare and tears me open. The sky seems a reflection of the waves, both lit silver by the waning light of the moon, waning in influence, for the lights of the city keep getting brighter. It is the moonlight that sings to me, that almost calls me out off of my rock and into the waves. It is the moon, and her children the tides who make me cry private tears, and who, bows her head in mournful regret and clears the fog away. It is a clear drive home. There are no more ghosts in the mountains, only dim stars above, and streetlamps to light the way home. That night, that moon, those waves, how many before me saw that same sky, that same fog and thought as I did, that they had never seen anything so beautiful? How many more nights like that will I have that transcend the conscious mind? I think not so many… nor so few.

Today is June 2,2020 and i sit here alone writing this book. Aparently ive made enormous mistakes and im useless to men because i look like a porn star but i am not! Ive been searching for my ride or die and Im now officially giving up! The sorrow in my heart after the torment of my journey.. Im planning on leaving for Texas but in my heart i really wanted to be with this person. They seemed concerned and he was surprisingly good at predicting my needs! I wish him well , but right now i hurt like hell!🔥🔥🔥 I hope yhat he knows that I care for him alot! I will miss him annd wonder . Always

The following clue was given to me in a yellow envelope with the help of a plump grey-haired woman averaging about 80 years of age. The envelope simply said “Piper Malone, C1 from Beatrice Brown” Here is how it happened. While AC went to find some cute lifeguard to engage with and ventured over to the nearby historical society with Tom's key in hand. Not really quite sure why I had to bring the key, just that I needed it for if nothing else luck. I certainly had no idea was I was going to do when I got to the historical society, but it seemed like a grand place to start.
When I first met the mentioned grey-haired lady she was outside sitting in a rocking chair looking half asleep. She nodded her head to me as I went in. A few moments later she came in and when I saw her sit behind the main desk, I figured I should ask her. So I went up and asked if she had any information about Dr. and Mr. Timothy (that is Tom's real name. His middle name is Owen and his last of course is Morris. That is how he got the nickname TOM.) Morris. Before I could even bat an eyelash she put her fingers to her lips to “shush” me, while at the same time looked around to make sure no one heard me. There was no one else in the whole building that I could see. Besides I was asking about long time dead people, not drugs. Though from the way she acted you would have thought they were just as bad. Never saying a word she got up and motioned for me to follow. We walked in silence through the “Staff Only” door, down a narrow musty hall dimly lit, and filled floor to ceiling with boxes that showed more age than my guide. Finely after a few twist and turns, along with some near misses with boxes that had moved on to the makeshift path. We came to a room with a door numbered 2100 just like on Tom's key. “I assume you have the key”, she said more to the door then to me. I pulled it out of my knapsack and started to hand it to her, but she backed away as if it had suddenly turned into a snake. “You open it”, she said coldly. “I want no more to do with this”. With her last word she turned and walked away. “Part of what” I wondered as I turned the key and unlocked the door, which opened into a tiny poorly painted white closet with bare shelves. Well almost bare, sitting propped up by the back of the wall was a very yellow and very very musty smelling envelope. The must smell was so strong I could not stop sneezing. I had to hold it at arm's length while opening it with shaking hands. I was so terrified that it would just fall apart at any moment. Inside was a not so yellow, but still quite musty piece of paper. Like the one from Tom's lawyer, this paper was also torn. This time however the letter was from Laurie's niece. Here is what she wrote. “All think my aunt was buried at sea, but a different truth I shall tell to thee. In a world they think not to go, we have hidden her from friend and foe. A place her eyes never did see, except in dreams of thee. “ “Great!” I thought.“Just what we need another poet who gives weird clues”. I turned the note over and found a travellers check for 1000.00 simply made out to “Cash”. Hum, I wonder if they still even cash these things” I said to my self as I examined the letter again. That is when I found in a very tiny script the words. “Head to Miami”
“Miami!!” Laurie is in Miami” AC nearly screamed those words after she read the note. Suddenly she pulled out her phone and started searching the internet for directions to Miami. While she was looking I noticed another key. This one was so very small that if I had not felt the weight of its brass making, I would have missed it altogether. I quickly took a picture of it that I sent to the MyBook group Memories. Almost immediately one of their antique experts said that it was a skeleton key for a type urn called a “Coffin Box” “They were very popular in the 1940s” he also added in his IM. “How appropriate” I could not help think as I wrote him a quick thank you IM. I then began another search this time using PicKode. I was searching for pictures of coffin boxes and boy did I find them. I felt an icy chill pass over me when I saw one that had been painted black with a red medical cross on the lid. My mind immediately flashed back over 60 years to when I had seen that exact same box in real life. The night I found Tom filling it with sand. “But he had glued the lid shut. Why would he need a key?” Where just a few of the questions fighting for space in my head at that moment. It seemed as if the longer I was in Florida the more mysterious this whole thing became.

Right now, I can see the gray, almost white clouds blanketing across the sky. Rain droplets are steadily making their way down the glass. I see a large brick and glass dormitory where students have decorated their own windows with smiley faces and short jokes. Lights peek out from the basement of Race Hall. I also see groups of students wearing hoodies and raincoats as they walk to their next class. Many are carrying cups of coffee and umbrellas. Some are riding skateboards or drinking smoothies from Urban. One person is doing both at the same time. Short, skinny, leafy trees stand on guard in front of window blocking of my view. Their leaves are sprinkled with flecks of gold. I can see lamp posts quiet now, waiting for their time to shine. Puddles have started to collect around them. I can see the pale, smooth concrete surface of Drexel's own little part of Race Street. No cars are here to disturb it. Looking across the street, I can see Race Lawn. The green, lush grass is speckled with a few fallen brown leaves. I can see pink and red flowers gently swaying in the chilly breeze as they surround a Drexel directory display. Right now, I wish I could see the ocean waves hitting the soft sand of the beach. I would be able to see bright blue waves piling up before they crashed. I would able to see seagulls gliding around the beach occasionally stopping to waddle on the sand for a bit. They might even swoop down and steal an innocent pedestrian's French fry. The bright blue sky would be calling me with soft, fluffy clouds dancing across. The gentle plants in the sand dunes would be moving in the warm gust. Once in a while, I could see the dorsal fins of a family of dolphins pop up from the waves. I could see a family gently guiding a young child near the water and the child squealing with excitement when their first wave covers their feet. I would see the Ocean City boardwalk spread out below me. Crowds of families holding ice cream cones and Thrasher's French Fries would be happily traveling from one amusement to the next. I would see the colorful tops of beach umbrellas spread out across the sand. Some are patterned, plain, or just promoting the local hotels. I would see young adults playing Frisbee or some beach volleyball. I would see the lifeguards watching over all the people in the water. They would be sitting among the sunbathers with a whistle and rescue buoy at the ready. I would be able to see small airplanes carrying large banners across the sky with messages and promotions for nearly every business in town. I would be able to see small boats carrying groups of cruise-goers steadily across the waves. Speedboats would make their way past carrying the screams of thrill-seekers. There would be the bravest among us flying across the ocean while their bright parasails guide them.

They say love can make you do strange and peculiar things. Others say it's exhilarating. But my husband, Will, and I think of ourselves as much too practical when it comes to life's important matters, such as love. And then we took a vacation to Belize. We read, researched, and planned. But only a few hours into our itinerary, we had to abandon it. As darkness snuck up on us, rain poured, and a windshield wiper on our tiny rental car didn't work. We dodged dogs and people moseying along the highway. The highway had no lights. Will suggested a place to spend the night but I countered, remembering reading about Hopkins Village. Little did we know, it would take us a white-knuckling, breath-holding 45-minutes to maneuver the four miles of unpaved, crater-filled so-called road. “Are you sure there is a village at the end of this?” Will asked. No, I wasn't. I panicked silently, wondering what I had gotten us into and hoping I hadn't made the entire situation worse. This situation being our vacation. I thought about shouting “We should've gone to Costa Rico!” but refrained. When the village's twinkling lights emerged ahead, I managed to breath. As we approached, the rain began to let up. The sea was straight ahead, and we arrived just in time to watch the full moon rising over the Caribbean. It was magical. So magical, it didn't seem real but more like an Elvis Presley movie set. The restaurant had thatch roofs, waves softly lapping, and this amazing moon emerging from the sea. And that was our very first night! Listening to the faint drumming sounds over a meal of fresh fish, the rain turned to a slow mist, melting the stress we had brought with us. And then we did something strange, peculiar, and exhilarating. We vowed to move to this little fishing village in Central America. In reality, there would be several more trips, extensive planning, and a five-year plan. But really, it was that first night, with the tropical breeze, delicious food, rum-drinks, and rain-soaked hair, that we fell in love with a place. We gazed at that moon and each other until our eyes succumbed to sleep. We wanted salt air, tropical moonrises, and authentic living. We wanted to fall asleep to the waves of the Caribbean Sea rather than the planes of Love Field. We wanted to ride on beach cruisers instead of sitting in traffic. We wanted beach walks not side walks. We wanted slow and relaxed instead of frantic and frazzled. We wanted Belize. Belize is a small little country about the size of New Hampshire with an abundance of nature—both sea and mountains. The rural country boasts of no fast-food or big box stores and it probably has more chickens than people. This developing country has much the romance of the wild west, complete with chaos, dangers, and take matters into your own hands' kind of place. And what an adventure it was! We decided to “go west,” buying and building. We planned to live in a little wooden cabana--Belize's version of a mobile home-- while building our dream beach house. We were so full of optimism. We embraced our setbacks and challenges with unabashed enthusiasm. No bed? We will sleep in a hammock. Can't find parts for the bathroom door? No problem. We will hang a hammock up for privacy like some hippies from the sixties. It could be months before any of furniture is ready? We'll reminisce our younger days—crates for nightstands…concrete blocks and boards for dressers. Four months later, we took delivery of bespoke tropical hardwood furniture. We took our time, we went slow, and soaked it all in. If we weren't blessed enough, it turned out the oldest bed and breakfast, our favorite vacation spot, with Lucy, our favorite beach dog, may be for sale. We'd known Lucy, the Irish wolfhound mixed with something much smaller, over the years and enjoyed our walks together to our favorite beach hang out. She trotted the two blocks to our place frequently. Some mornings we'd open our front door only to discover Lucy laid across it like a welcome mat. Lucy reminded us of our first dog—smart and funny. Will and I day-dreamed of Lucy and the inn being ours. We talked of importing expensive mattresses and soaps…of expanding the verandas and having romantic double showers. We drank dark rum. We strolled along the beach. We made love without worrying about rushing off to work. We were happy in this magical, quirky, little village. And, I could say “the end.” But it may not be fair to finish the story like that without also including that it may have been a rash decision to purchase a bed and breakfast to get a puppy dog. I could also add that we didn't do things the way they've always been done, upset the status quo, and made a whole bunch of people angry. No doubt, there were twists, turns, and stumbling blocks on our adventure. But even so, our goal of adventure-seeking was reached in record time.

there's sand in between my toes, woah isn't that neat? the waves are crashing against the shore did you get it yet? well i'm at the beach. can the same 3 notes in a song, get even more annoying? the answer is yes. there's basic white girls of all ages trying to get a tan, they never will have. but, the most interesting thing was just two nerds and a metal detector.

With the wind blowing in your hair and the sun shining on your face, one can find little to complain about. With the ocean colliding upon the sand and the shells spread around the beach, one should find peace. But there is no peace. As the mind forces thoughts, ones unwanted, on to the brain. And the body aches of pains of all sorts of origins. Bruises and scrapes litter the body. No one can be sure where they came from. Strangers don't stop to ask what's wrong. It may be strange for someone to be sitting on the beach on a cold winter day, but everyone has their own life. Everyone has their own issues. Nobody has the time to care. So, as you sit on the beach, with the cold air rushing through your hair and the sun radiating it's bright but frigid rays directly on you, you feel nothing. Absolutely nothing. As if the inside of you was just a cold bottomless pit. No end, no beginning. But empty. All that's inside of you is the dark nothingness that haunts you. It's like you don't have warm blood, circulating through your body. As you even feel cold to the touch. You could even think that your heart isn't pumping. Your lifeless. Motionless. Sitting there on the beach, anyone would think you were just mesmerized by the ocean. But your just trying to feel. Anything. You hope to be happy. To find something to enjoy. To fill the pit inside you. But it all seems impossible. How do you fill something that's endless? Something that doesn't even seem to want to be filled? The only thing you want to do is feel. But the easiest way to feel is through pain. So your left in what seems like an endless cycle of hopelessness. Nowhere to go and no way to get out. All you can ever feel is empty.

I sat alone on a isolated stretch of beach, knees pulled tightly to my chest, staring out at the vast, alluring ocean. I was mesmerized by the sunset kissed swells as the last breaths of daylight slipped past the horizon at my back. Wind whipped off the water and past my cheeks. The smell of salt induced nostalgia that enveloped me like a warm blanket. I reached down and grasped a hand full of sand, squeezing it gently. A controlled flow slid out of my clutch like an hour glass, each grain a tick of a clock as it spilled back to the earth. I've always loved the sea. It's beauty, the sound of the waves crashing, transforming the shoreline with each crest and fall. I remembered running alongside my cousins from the sprawling foam as it washed away our footsteps, leaving behind a beautiful, glistening clean slate, a fresh start, a new beginning. As a person grows many venture further into the water. Some dip a toe, others may wade out to their knees, but many go deeper. Unfortunately as beautiful and majestic as it is, the ocean can be both unpredictable and dangerous. A riptide can tear your legs out from under you and pull you out to where it's so deep your feet no longer reach the bottom. A huge wave may crash over you and send you through a spin cycle. You'll lose track of which way is up, down, left or right. When you finally reach the bubbling, white aftermath on the surface, you're gasping for air, your strength and will depleted. Simply praying there's not another one coming. However, If you know anything about waves you'd know it could have been different. You'd know that very same one which destroyed you, through strength, timing and embracing its power could have carried you all the way to the safety of the shore. You may skim your chest on the sand but soon enough the sun will dry your skin and in no time you'll be swimming again. Maybe you'll stay closer to the shallows but that's ok, you're different person now. The last of the sand trickled from my palm. I stood while rubbing my thumb and forefinger together until I felt the ridges of my fingerprints meet again. I walked slowely off the beach as the last crest of the sun dipped behind the bay. I took one final look over my shoulder as a wave receded. What it left behind was a beautiful, glistening, clean slate. A new beginning. And I couldn't help but smile.

I remember a pouring rain, cleansing our souls as if it were holy water. I remember carelessly wiping streaks of makeup across our beauty stricken young faces. We'd just endured a night we thought to be so mundane, we had no clue the memory would stain itself into our brains for years to come. The 4th of July, what a holiday. A day dedicated to the craft of barbeque art and fireworks, these gigantic, beaming fireworks that left the ugliest asymmetric smoke clouds behind, lit by lightning from the storm that changed our friendship forever. Brielle, Courtney, and I had been friends for a majority of our lives. A memory so fond was bound to make its way into our little group at one point or another, but expect it, we did not. I was given the night off last minute from the Italian restaurant I worked in. In retrospect that was fate actively playing a role in my life, considering my boss had never thrown me such a bone before, and would never throw one again after that glorious night. Without as much as a second to consider it, I had Courtney on the phone, begging her to pick Brielle up and come to my house, where fireworks would be set off on the beach. They said yes, thank God. They came promptly and we took a walk through my tiny town, on a tiny island, within a tiny planet, inside a gaping open universe. We were so fucking small, but we felt as massive as the fireworks themselves, strolling past banal shops we knew like the back of our hands, laughing out echoing nothings in the dead center of existence. Sometimes I wonder about what pieces of my life I will remember vividly when I'm an old woman. What stories will I tell? Which friends will I refer back to? I wonder which moments will one day bring a glimmer to my eyes when I talk about them, and which ones I will keep tucked away in my thoughts. The night of 4th of July is one story I can already tell you will remain iconic until the day I die. What makes this night so important? It's not as much the night itself, but what pearls the night produced within us. Heavy storm clouds were rolling in on my tiny town, and each surrounding island postponed their firework festivities. A cancelled firework show was our biggest fear that night. That show felt like our lifeline. The sun tripped and fell beneath the shoreline and we made our way towards the boardwalk when the first drop of rain spritzed against my face. Another came, and another, until eventually water was all we could see. We ducked underneath awnings as we pushed ourselves to make the show on time, but the fear of no explosive sky celebration swirled inside my mind. We made it to the 43rd street boardwalk only to see an unbelievable number of people packed underneath a stray ceiling, waiting to see the fireworks. I veered at the beach, which normally scored thousands of beach towels and people on this night, and saw absolutely nobody. No one was on the beach. Already dripping wet, Brielle stared at the beach and back at the people hiding underneath the severed roof and said to us: “Let's just go on the beach.” Such a simple idea, yet no one else had come up with it. We nodded our heads and embraced the falling water in its entirety. It was rain, that was all it was, but everyone acted as though it was acid falling from the sky. We climbed up and down the lifeguard stand and did cartwheels in the sand, surrounded by the timeless sound of our own voices screaming out dares to one another, taking up as much space as we possibly could. And then, the first firework shot up. At this point the rain was undoubtedly coming down hard enough for my tiny town to cancel them, as did the surrounding islands, but they didn't. A significantly small group of people could even see, but the town said screw it and set them off anyway, just as we said screw it and watched them in a soaking wet state, spreading out along the beach's natural front row. Never in my life have I ever found myself in a setting so blatantly important, it was a visually obvious divide between the us and the them of the planet. Every single other person on that entire tiny island deemed the rain too unbearably wet to stoop down to the beach we found ourselves happily perched upon that night. They passed on maybe their only opportunity to bask in the gleam of lightning and fireworks up close, skin pruning in a perfect storm, they passed on their opportunity to even find out what makes such a scene appealing. It didn't matter how small the island was, it didn't matter how small we were, because inside of that singular instance, those fireworks were quite literally made for us. We remain confident to this day in saying that very few human beings have experienced such a beautiful, blunt moment, a moment that makes being in this life feel like a privilege and not a chore. It was the moment that told us how important we are, even in the scheme of the whole galaxy.