months ago my mother mailed me several pounds of sand in double ziplock baggies, for an ocean altar that i only today got around to creating.

two bags. one of fine, white asilomar sand, dotted with little bits of charcoal; one of the coarser sand that knows it came from granite, maybe from the beach where we spread a blanket and all stared up as the sky misted down on us and we shivered in the cold. i kneeled on my freshcleaned floor, shoved my hands in up to my wrists, scooped out handfuls and let them sift through my fingers. sand has a smell, you know. cold, almost wet, and a particular way that the larger bits get under your fingernails and how the powdersoft kind sticks to the creases of your palms.

the way you sink into it after stepping off the boardwalk, just past the carefully partitioned dune restoration area, with the dog who will get tiny white flecks into every crevice of your car. the way it slips into your shoes and through your socks, or how it sucks out from under your feet when the tide pulls away. the brief startlement with every digging when you find the packedcold wet sand under the fluffy top. the tiny holes that crabs breathe through, even though you can never find the crabs beneath. how sharp the pieces can be when you try to brush them off later, and how you find little bits in your ears the next day. the way it feels against scalp and skin, inside the bathing suit and between your fingers. the joy of an abalone shell and the thick slurp of a kelp pod. the heat of a bonfire against wet shivering, the warmth of a towel in the occasional sun. the alwaysthrill of seals on the rocks. the fog.

for all i try, nothing in the colored trees or windswept sky can compare.