Items I found on the beach

My record of ‘Items I found on the beach in the past few weeks’ flutters away, caught by the wind. I hadn’t gotten around to writing anything on it yet, so it’s just a single slip of paper, optimistically labeled. It was crumpled at the top, where my anxiety led to me holding it slightly too tight, an excuse for my trespassing and something to do with my hands at the same time. I don’t really miss it too much, claiming that I had it is just as good an excuse—a very bad one—as having it physically present.

But I’m not terribly worried about being caught anymore. A long abandoned lighthouse, cracked and faded paint labeling it as a retrofitted lifeguard’s tower, now sitting empty, has caught my attention. I remember seeing a kid man the station there a few weeks ago, looking as if he thought he was auditioning for a reality show. He clearly wouldn’t have been up for it, if that was his job, but nobody had the heart to tell him that.

I don’t enter the tower right away, and I try not to think about the kid who’s name I never knew. Instead, I survey the beach for debris and detritus, slowly and surely working my way closer to what I choose to think of as the lighthouse. Even the wind is coming from the opposite direction than I remember.

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