From Summer to Winter

Who was she?

Why is that memory so prominent in my mind?

Why can’t I see her face in this dreamlike state?

Whispers of young strangers in conversation enter my mind, and distorted echoes of sand crunching beneath feet, and of crashing waves; they reverberate within.

I try without avail to picture her face. My memory is withering like an autumn leaf. A bitter reminder of the nearing winter.

I see her laying on her stomach, watching as the sea wanders up the shore only to retreat. I see her tanned arms outstretched, embracing the beach while digging her fingers into the damp sand. I see her feet swinging gracefully in the air - a familiar action, similar in its essence to the wagging tail of a dog.

Her face is turned away from me, but I urge her spectre to face me, just once. I need to see her, even if only for a moment.

She obeys, flicking her hair over her shoulder, she turns her face to meet mine.

But the glare of the golden sun casts a halo around her, it fights to prevent me from seeing anything but an outline.

I struggle, squinting through the burning light, finally, I manage to catch a glimpse of glistening deep brown eyes. Eyes set with an air of wisdom, with an underlying urgency to their gaze.

But her eyes, her eyes.

I simply don’t recognise.