Waltzing on Sand

What’s on my mind? We had a picnic at the beach, this week. No one was there. Two folding chairs. Two clip-on umbrellas. Two ham sandwiches. Fruit, shared. Cheese, shared. Love, shared.

We walked and walked on the hard, flat sand, never reaching the end. We asked ourselves: “Where do we go from here?” We weren’t thinking about the beach. 

It’s only June. Maybe that’s why the beach is so quiet. That’s what we told ourselves, complicit in the lie. 

I’ve changed. So’s he. Fingers laced, I tightened my grip on his. He began singing - quietly, as he always does, to calm me down. Loosening my fingers, he extended our arms as I leaned into his body. We waltzed on the sand as the waves crept closer. 

Florida has been seeing 1,200 new cases a day. Arizona, more than 1,000. Texas, 1,500. South Carolina, Oregon ... All in trouble. The President demanded every State open. Money, first. Lives, last.

Stay home. Stay calm. Stay safe. We’ve stopped having dinner parties, of course. We always had dinner parties. We heard on the morning news that a family reunion of 30 led to 15 new cases of COVID, not far from where we live. 

“The fog comes on little cat feet. It sits looking over harbor and city on silent haunches and then moves on ...” Carl Sandburg wrote that in 1916. 

Have you read On the Beach? Nevil Shute’s brilliant book about the end of the world? If you haven’t, do. If you fear death, don’t. 

Have you read T.S. Eliot? The Hollow Men? When I read it years ago, it was immediately etched on my soul: 

“This is the way the world ends

This is the way the world ends

This is the way the world ends

Not with a bang, but a whimper.”

As the President rages and tweets, we waltz on the sand with our little cat feet, the fog and the waves ever closer.

©  Nicole Parton, 2020