Fangs

I like to do year-end music lists as much as anyone. My original plan was to use my favorite songs of the year as writing prompts throughout December, but December was kind of crazy for me and that didn't pan out. So then I was going to make it January, because, hey, it's a 31-item list. But then that fell through, too. So I guess I'm just going to do it anyway, at my own pace.





We're never afraid to be on the right beach at the wrong time. We've

sat on the knoll by the ferry on a wind-raw December night
watched a lightning storm away out over the ocean from the shore
stood in the middle of the rock wall at Fort Fisher as thunder rolled across the water to us
laid huddled on the sand in the hopes of seeing shooting stars when it was below freezing and you could hear the chill in the waves, feel it down to the bone.

So when a January day promised to be clear, if not warm, we didn't hesitate. We bundled up, got in the car, and drove. We drove

                                       

                                                                                                                                                                                                        west
                                                                                                                                                            south
                                                                                                                     west
                                                                             south
                                      west

almost to the state line separating us from the wilderness of another Carolina.



I don't remember a thing about the drive, but I do remember that the day turned gray and it felt right. I remember that salt smell slapping me in the face on a sharp gust the moment I stepped out of the car. I remember the long pier from the road to the beach, between condos and over sand hills and through a copse that buzzed with insects the summer before, now quiet except for the wind. I remember not hearing the ocean, knowing it was over that down and not being able to hear a thing. You take a few steps and suddenly, it's there, white foam crashing white noise dimly in the background until you come over that last rise and the sea opens out before you at full volume, louder than you ever expect and never stopping for breath. I remember the grass on the dunes and almost no one around. The day bright behind the clouds. My toes going numb and my fingers long since gone, out of my gloves so I could take pictures. The wind raking my hair mercilessly. Sand filling my shoes. Jaw locked against the cold, eyes streaming, ears aching deep down inside.

What a good day.