She walked down the hill to the beach, bundled in a down coat, fingerless gloves and a white knit hat. Sneakers on pavement gave way to fine sand spilling over her laces as each step took more effort. Closer to the shoreline the sand was more compact, sturdier beneath her. Here she could stroll along the rocky ground, now pounded by the November waves, wind whipping them into a fury.
She imagined a storm, how it would rage in years past, toss fishing boats as they struggled to avoid the lighthouse signaling at the point. She thought of the contrast, just yesterday sun warming her face as she ate lunch, read, wrote on a picnic table perched on the beach, watching couples meander along the shore with their dog. She could linger.
The wind beat fiercely as she climbed a small hill to circle back. But as she found herself among the golden reeds, atop a mound just set back from the rocky beach, she felt suspended, wind pounding from all directions. She paused, the intermission comforting, demanding reverence.
Pressure on all sides, she remained. It was as if liquid, not air, compressed her. As if warmth, an unexpected peace held her in the midst of the chill November day.
