Only Driftwood

This morning I took a walk on the bleak, deserted beach; not even the seabirds wanted to scavenge in the stinging, horizontal rain.

I usually try to follow the high-water mark. It is easier to walk there, and the seafoam sometimes carries treasures.

Today, though, I walked back near the driftwood margin; it blocked the wind a little. Driftwood has always fascinated me. The bleached, twisted shapes speak of desolation and endurance.

I stumbled, lurching, and looked down. I’d tripped over bones, a hand, fingers partially buried in the sand. It seemed like a desperate skeleton clawing its way out of the earth.

I breathed deeply… be calm. I knelt, and without touching, looked more closely. A silver bracelet circled the dessicated wrist, inscribed with the word “Faith”.

It was disconcerting; I’d thought this was a good place to hide the body.

I brushed sand back over the unfortunate bones, relic of a different time in my life, and headed back up the beach to warmth.

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