Love Letters in the Sand

Love Letters in the Sand

 

It’s early Monday morning, a June day, 2012, a little before eight. I'm in my driveway. 
 
I open the car and begin to clean things up so when granddaughter Emma, sixth grader, gets in a few minutes later she won’t wreck all my stuff.

Stuff?

Yesterday’s accumulated paraphernalia – a month old NY Times Book Review section, a library book – The Elements- Building Blocks of Our Universe (no comprendo), two baseball gloves, one “soft” vinyl covered baseball (always ready to play catch with the grand-kids), a white oxford long sleeve shirt (not sure why) , another book, French Dirt-The Story of a Garden in the South of France (maybe I'll go to France for the summer … dream on ... ), and a very old umbrella that, untouched, has a tendency to randomly spring open (must discard).  I try to neatly arrange the stuff - not the umbrella - out of the way, on the passenger side of the dashboard. Not an ideal solution,  and shamefully, too often, how the car looks when I drive the kids to school – seats empty and clear, but dashboard cluttered with the prior day’s stuff. 
 
Here I pause.
 
Finally, I bite the bullet. I get out of the car, gather up the clutter from the dashboard and deposit it in the trunk. 
 
I feel better.
On this particular June Monday, I look up and notice a sprinkling of sand on the right side of the dashboard in front of the passenger seat. 
Huh? How did that get there I wonder?
Then I remember that on Saturday night, after a walk on the boardwalk we, A and I, jumped down onto a patch of sand heading before heading back to the car, and A took her shoes off to walk through the sand. On the ride home her shoes were still in her hand and as we traveled on, she leaned back and put her feet up on the dashboard. 
Could that be it? I look at the sand again. Yes, had to be.
The sand – a thousand grains perhaps, concentrated toward a center, less so around the edges, a natural pattern (in my imagination), beautiful like fallen leaves under a tree. I look again, trying to see if there is anything like a footprint.  
Of course not. 
It is now Tuesday morning and the sand is still on the dash and – don’t know - but somehow, for some reason, seeing it there warms my heart.