The Coastal Road Before Light

The path I followed across the scrub grass simply ceases. I stand where the rough gravel ends, facing the Atlantic. The air tastes of salt and copper. My fingers close around the brass key; its warmth transmits through the skin, a sustained heat. I remember the colour of the house—white clapboard, the corner with the deep green enamel cup on the sill. A scent of cut pine and damp earth rises from the low tide. My weight shifts, and the gravel beneath my boots seems to remember my passing, settling into a shallow depression. I walk toward the dunes, the sand cool against the soles of my socks. There is only the ocean now, a sheet of bruised violet and grey.