Carol Khorramchahi

The sun bloomed on the horizon, golden petals stretching ever outwards into the rich blue. It was the brilliant flower of the sky that warmed my day. It was the invitation to a new day, that sunrise so ordinary yet, extraordinary. It peeked up over the waves, and the thin rays glistened over the sparkling undulations of the ocean. Upon the sunny beach, upon the rising gold, my eyes listened to the light as it played upon seawater, streams of pulsing light saturated the surface with a golden haze. It was a loud silence. The horizon was stitched with a line of silver.

With browning legs curled under, dusted with sand like flour on bread, I sat close to the lapping waves. Warm and cool, like tea that had been forgotten and returned to. My fingers wiggled in the water, in the lips of the ocean as she sang. The waves broke around the rocks in the shallows, their foam crests became chaotic lace over the blue. I watched it swirl, mesmerized, as if the movement of the water choreographed my thoughts. The waves of sunlit skies pulsed upon shore in a steady rhythmic beat, coming in as the dancing hem of a long and flowing gown, some crashing like hands of the sea pounding on the seashore.

I meandered forwards until the water soaked my bare feet, my shoes already dangling in my left hand, tasting the brine as much as I smelt it. Waves came as finest strands of blue-green hair, infused with sunlit white. For these were the great locks of our goddess the sea, of she who breathed life into the world and kept her steady shoreline beat. When these boats of nature’s tide, these free sailing sun-kissed branches, came to rest upon either pebbles or golden sands, they sat as kings adoring the seawater view. 

I settled on the pure, primrose sand, my eyes moved from sand to stone, from rock pools to breaking waves. In the gentle spring sunshine I felt as if I were swimming in the briny aroma, as if the new rays of the day brought a frisson of energy to my fingertips. It was a day for letting my eyes stay open, as I was an old fashioned camera, remaining still while the image developed. The gulls brought their high notes to the percussion of pebbles at the shore, their wings are like the pages from my childhood storybooks flying high in the sunny rays.

My hand scooped the sand that ran like cold lava through my star-fish fingers and onto the dry beach. I gazed at the falling sand like a child, overtaken by love and awe. Below it rose a drip-castle, a sandcastle that looked for all the world like a melted candle, for me it was the towering castle of my story books, in which my childhood was locked in. The best of my memories as far back and forwards as I could reach, formed the golden thread of both soul and spine. Memories, the good and painful, are photographs – and I could choose what kind of album I wished to build, as I looked around the infinite blue that surrounded me, I wanted all my albums to be filled with azure.

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