Sandy Floors

Every so often, I'll catch a glimpse of something that sets off a powerful wave of nostalgia, a sense of longing so acute that I actually feel bereft. It's not any one specific thing, but it's always some sort of visual image that calls to mind the 1970s, or New England, or both.

"Take me back there!" I want to scream, though I know it would be useless.

I'm not transported to one particular memory, but to a jumble of impressions. Summer by the shore (probably Maine; possibly Rhode Island). The breeze sings gently; the air warms my skin, but sun and salt tighten it, deliciously. People are everywhere on the beach, a blur of bright colors and red skin and oversized sunglasses.

Then I cross the road, asphalt burning the soles of my feet, and run inside a rented cottage. It's cheap and barely furnished, but it's only one block from the beach. The curtains are ancient checked gingham. Cool and dark here; the floors are covered with a fine layer of sand, pleasantly gritty underfoot.

I am tired even though it is only afternoon, and I am just a child. The cold New England waters buoy you up and then sap your strength. I climb into a creaky old twin bed, easing onto stiff cotton sheets, and shut my eyes. I can swim again later, I know. More sun, salt, sand. I drift away in a cocoon of quiet joy. Summer...

Who wouldn't want to go back?