The sun is low in the sky. It’s my last day in Key West and I have yet to see a sunset, which, I hear is amazing. I need to get to Mallory Square and quick.

I hurry up Duval Street, weaving through the cruise ship the mob. I’m not that familiar with Key West, but I know all streets lead to the sea so I take a side street to get out from these crowds. I see the port and take a shortcut alongside a century-old cigar-rolling building. The sun is getting low, so I run.

 I don’t get far, I trip, then slam into the side of the building. I try but can’t stop myself or put out a hand to break my fall.

I collect myself, then stand. Shaking my head, I look around. I blush but no one seems to have noticed. What’s odd is I’m now at the bottom of Duval Street, back where I started. I shake my head and blink to be sure I’m there. I am.

I’m confused.

The person beside me stares, I see concern in his eyes. I feel my forehead, checking for blood, there’s none. I must have hit my head hard; I don’t remember walking back to the hotel. But it’s across the street so I obviously did. Should I go back to the hotel? I look up the road, the sun hasn’t set.

I nod at the staring guy; I think I recognize him. I turn to walk off and as I do, I almost stumble over two elderly women who stepped in front of me. Odd, they look like my two grandmothers. They’re arm in arm and smiling at me. I smile back and step around them.

The one who looked like my mother’s mother points towards the sunset. “You’re going to miss it, dear, if you don’t hurry.”

Nana agrees. “Skedaddle, buster.” It’s a phrase she’s used forever.

“Yes, mam!” I say and speed past them. I hear Grandmom say. “Little shit almost missed it.” I laugh, ‘Little shit’ was her pet name for me.

I smile at their memory; they both loved me even though I wasn’t always good.

I run.

The cruise-ship crowds have gone, leaving normal (heavy) tourist traffic. Most of them seem to be heading toward Mallory Square like me. I move fast but carefully; I don’t want to fall again.

The next person I look at is a doppelgänger to my Aunt Carol, the woman who, after my mother, took the most interest in me. She inspired me to cook, which I still do. I smile at her and she gives me an ever-so-tiny wave. Aunt Carol did that only with me. It was our special secret greeting. I watch her watching me moving up the street, her hidden hand secretly waving. But like my grandparents, Aunt Carol passed away long ago.

I turn to continue my journey and almost tumble over a young boy. He’s holding his grandfather’s hand. I apologize. The boy’s face stops me, he’s the spitting image of Jimmy Funk. Jimmy was my best friend all through grammar school. We were inseparable and, in every class, together until he moved away in seventh grade. When I was old enough to walk home from school, I’d spend afternoons at Jimmy’s house, he only lived a block from school.

 “Hi, Nicky.”

“Jimmy?”

I stop dead. I’m almost sixty, looking at a 10-year-old who knows my childhood nickname. “You know me?” I say, dumbfounded.

“Nicky, you’re gonna miss it. You better run.” The high boyish voice trills, it’s Jimmy Funk.

I’m about to speak but the older man, who looks like an older Jimmy, says. “Nicky, you should hurry.” He has Jimmy’s eyes.

Jimmy Funk was the first person I ever fell in love with. I didn’t understand that then, but I do now.

I feel my heart swell.

I run.

I move fast for a few blocks before I look at another face. I know who it is before I reach him.

“Rev!”

“Nicky, go, it’s almost time.”

I’m shocked to see Father O’Brian again, it’s been years. He was the young priest at my childhood church. I taught him to ski, and he taught me to be a leader. If it was important to talk, he’d stop me, I know.

I can’t tell if I’m exhausted or well-rested. I don’t look forward to doing what needs doing, and for once in my life, I’m not going to do it, at least not today. I’m going to enjoy these last few hours of vacation. And besides, as I dig my toes into the plush rug covering the living room floor, I sigh with relief. No sand. No sand anywhere, not even a single grain of the stuff. With that realization, and some childish exuberance, I run to the kitchen and wipe my bare feet across the tiled floor, there is not a spec of sand. I pour the husband and me a glass of wine and plop down not the magnificent sandless rug.

****

I’m a Midwest girl and the closest I’d ever got to the beach was at the movies or maybe in a sandbox as a kid. So I had no idea what sand was until I got to Rehoboth Beach. It was my very first summer vacation at the beach, or shore, Ugh! Let’s not even go there – it was the first time I, let’s call it, experienced sand.

Did you know sand has magnetic properties towards kids, like matter to a black hole? I have 2 active young boys, and the moment we stepped out of the car in Rehoboth Beach, they had sand on them. Just from walking the sidewalk, it somehow was sucked up and glued to them.

From the moment Rob (the husband who begged for this vacation) and I arrived at the shore, there was sand. Stepping into the small kitchen of the rented sweet little bungalow, I notice that the floors weren’t swept. After unpacking and setting up the boy’s room, I spent two hours cleaning, vacuuming, and sweeping. I even swept the sidewalk leading up to the bungalow. I told the husband he had to tell the realtor, but he just laughed. Really?

 Let me back up a little. When Rob, who was born and raised near Rehoboth Beach, was younger, he planned to go to school in Florida where it’s always summer and there are beaches along both sides of the state. Silly boy, imagine his shock when he saw the return address on the acceptance letter. His loss, my gain, since I knew Miami University was in Ohio. But soon enough he’d forget all about the shore, as he calls it, and got down to business.

We met as freshmen and were married the year after graduation. The husband found a good job not far from where I grew up and so we settled there. My family is super tight, so I appreciated that he gave up his precious Delaware roots for me. My family loves him, he’s a great guy and treats me like a princess.

The husband has a close brother but he lives on the west coast. His folks are still at his childhood house so I make sure we visited them at least twice a year. We’ve spent every Thanksgiving and Christmas’ with them since our Junior year, that was until our first boy came along.

After Robby was born, it became harder to travel. When Sam came along not quite 2 years later, it was nearly impossible. But I promised the husband we’d not keep the kids from his folks, so when the boys were 3 and 5, the husband packed the car, and off we went for 2 weeks in Delaware.

Before the boys came, when we drove out to visit his folks, the husband had taken me around to show me his roots. So I’d been to Rehoboth and knew it was a cute town. But those were wintery visits. I was looking forward to a summer vacation at the beach. I knew the boys, who were mini models of the husband, would love it.

If you’re from the East Coast, the shore is an all-encompassing term used for any city which has a beach. But it’s also specific to your city, and so hard to figure out what the actual location is. Sometimes I can’t discern if the husband is referring to the actual shore, where the ocean meets the land, or the shore, the town he grew up in.

 So when the husband told the boys we were going to the shore, I corrected him, saying we were going to the beach. The husband laughed, and corrected me with, “The shore”.

Like the husband’s surprise that Miami U. isn’t always warm, the “shore” isn’t all sunrises and tans. The shore, in a word, is sand. There is sand everywhere, and I mean e-v-e-r-y-w-h-e-r-e. They even fill glass lamps with it to sell. Why would anyone buy a lamp full of sand? It’s insane.

The sun peeked over the black horizon turning the sky a brilliant purple. Slashed in streaks of gold, the ocean’s surface undulating like a wheat field in late summer, slow and soft. 

I should have been in awe of the sight in front of me. The imperceptibly slow kaleidoscope of colors moved from black to a deep purple and was now turning blood red was probably spectacular. It should have been breathtaking, but I barely noticed. 

Needing solitude, my seclusion was broken by a young couple that had just taken a seat to watch the display. They were a hundred yards down the beach and I willed that they’d pick another morning to fall in love. But no, they sat in the dry sand, wrapped in each other’s arms. From the faint sounds drifting to me, they were awestruck as the colors of the sky slid from dark to brilliant colors. Or maybe they were sweet words, words of lust and desire, it was hard to tell.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the guy point as the sky changed from blood red to a deep orange that no painter could mix. They embraced and kissed with each explosion of color. The wonder in their voices sounded like a hymn or a prayer, making me feel even more alone.

I had once been them, young, in love, and in awe of a sunrise. There’s something about the sunrise that’s captivating. Much like making love at their age, sunrises are never the same: They’re breathtaking and spellbinding. But unlike me, this couple was so much in love, needing to be close and safe in each other arms.

I didn’t stare or even look, I didn’t want them to notice me. I only glanced once, instinctively turning at the sound of their voices. He held her so tight as if keeping her warm, but unfortunately it was a beautiful spring morning. Her long hair waved in the warm breeze.

Looking out over the water as orange slid into amber, the image of her hair fluttering in the breeze brought images of my bedroom curtains. That was where I’d last seen my husband. He’d been lying in our bed, the layers of fine linen curtains gently reaching out to wake him. 

If I were home now, I would wrap myself in those curtains, safe and hidden from the world. But I wasn’t home, I was squatting inches from the foam left on the sand by the low-rolling surf. The foam sparkled in the sunrise like a million tiny searchlights; the slow ebbing waves like hands straining to take possession of me. 

I wondered if anything could escape the power of the rising sun, it revealed everything in its path. I already knew the answer. The heavy lead-grey object I held against my chest was impervious to the sunrise. Not even the blazing sun that wakes the cold earth with its fanfare of color could penetrate this heartless piece of metal.

My husband, who long ago would have been here next to me, his arms tight around me like the young couple, insisted on buying this mechanism of death. I pleaded, threatened, and cried for him not to. “Please, for the good of our marriage, do not buy a gun,” I begged. But he brought home the headstone-colored pistol that needed only the slightest pressure on the trigger to kill. So effortless, a child could shoot it. And now, like the gun, I am cold and heavy.

We were once that couple, needing to be closer than close, craving each other’s touch. Forty years ago, we too would have pressed our bodies tight, our hearts pounding against each other. We’d be the ones with our cheeks washed in a warm breath, excited by the feel of soft skin against our palms.

When my husband and I first fell in love, we were afraid of nothing, we worried about nothing. We had this great big color-filled world at our feet. We were like the ocean: calm yet powerful. Every breath our lungs took, every sunrise our eyes saw, fueled the fire in our souls. Our hearts overflowed with love and longing, our desires stoked in each other’s arms.

Forty years later and that flame is all but extinguished. My husband’s no longer that man, no longer my protector. He’s no longer unaware of the dangers in the world. TV sitcoms and romantic movies have given way to a constant barrage of news channels whose ratings increase with each exaggerated headline or manipulated news story. And that news scares him. He’s afraid that his arm around me will no longer protect me.