I have the sand that Andy gave me in the hour that he died. A wind-cut icy Saturday January morning. In between the breaths I gave him back I never thought to thank him.
The sand I poured to store inside July’s sun umbrella stand. I couldn’t find the scoop nor heart to spread it on the walk. I sit in summer heated breeze out on the patio, beneath the cold shade of the umbrella.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology