My Footprints

My footprints trail behind me in the sand, sharply defined in the hard compacted edges where the remnants of waves lap close to them. I look back. They stretch in an almost straight line, washed away in sections – rather like life – moments that happen and then are forgotten. Other moments linger in my mind, surfacing unexpectedly.  

I look down. My toes are peppered with sand. Fine flicks stick to my calves and I watch as the gentle water sneaks around my ankles, then recedes. My feet have walked in different lands, on winding bush paths.  

My toes curl. There is red Rhodesian mud beneath them now. It oozes softly, covering their whiteness, painting my feet. I’m eight years old. Above, tall rain clouds gather, flat-bottomed, black ombre to off-white at their peak. I spread out my arms and twirl in the mud, laugh as thunder rolls, a dog barks at my ankles and the first large drops fall over my face. My skirt is soon soaked, clinging to my skinny legs and I hear my Grandpa shouting for me to come inside. I run to his outstretched arms —he doesn’t care that I’m wet. In the kitchen, the wood stove warms me. Hot bread snuggles under tea towels. Rain drums on the corrugated iron roof. 

There's a dog at my feet, a corgi like mine who barked at me in the red mud and rain. Its pink tongue is lolling and its lead lies loose. 

‘I’m so sorry, he got away from me!’ calls a woman, running over the sand.

‘It’s alright. I was just daydreaming.’

‘Hope it was a good one.’

‘Oh, for sure it was,’ I say and walk slowly away, leaving new footprints and memories in the Terrigal beach sand.