Galveston-Fiction

It's early enough that the Texas air isn't yet straining my lungs. Walking along the beach my gaze is forced down by the wide brim of my straw hat. Occasionally I lift my hand to the back of my head, 

holding the hat down in the wind I glance up to survey the flat stretch of sand that unfolds in front of me. 

Cars dot the beach as Garth Brooks drifts over the top of the breaking waves. 

I reach a place where pylons push back the cars and the beach opens up.

Kicking through the surf I glance to the right and notice carnations, red, green, white, it crosses my mind to pick through the debris field, plucking up the intact flowers to create a ragged bouquet, but I pass without stopping and continue to make my way toward the designated marker in the distance.

On this morning my companions have chosen to stay back in the condo that we're sharing and lounge over steaming cups of coffee rather than join me. At first I was disappointed; conversation speeds up a long walk exponentially for this extrovert, but this morning I find peace in my solitude.

My feet glide through the foamy water when I notice, just out of reach of the lapping waves, what appears to be a brain. My head cocks to the right as I near the object and I see that it's actually a head of green cauliflower. Pulling my gaze away from the cruciferous veggie too late I step down hard on a jagged shell, pain radiates through my foot. Instinctually I lift the foot, grab it with my hands and turn it over to assess the damage. Blood trickles out from the wound. I lower the injured foot into the water. Balancing, I rinse the cut and once more raise my foot to examine it. It's not too deep, but I decide I better turn around and make my way back to the condo to clean it up. The salt water stings the open wound and I think about how quickly things can change. What started as a peaceful walk has turned into a minor moment for a triage nurse.

Nearing the dead fish that acts as the marker for where I left my shoes I begin to favor the uninjured foot. I pick my way across the jetty rocks that stand between me and the condo gate, sweat trickles down into my eyes, the world blurs. At the gate I strain against the rusted hinges. I hobble to the elevator that will take me to the fourth floor. I can feel the sand grinding into the wound and I relax into the discomfort. Waiting for my lift a thought arises: it's always possible to find the positive, it's just a matter of perspective.