Jacksonville Beach

I used to live in a beach house. She was on the corner of Walnut and Midway. She was beautiful, mint green with dark blue doors. If I opened my blinds I could see the tops of the sand dunes before they dipped down into the ocean. The house was always full of sand, I swept every day during the 4 years I lived on Midway.

That bottom level apartment was Clementine’s first home, her love for the sand grew out of running away from me, learning how to dodge me like a linebacker running from a heavy defense blocker. She patrolled the perimeter, nobody crossed her line of scrimmage. I don't know football references, but I thought I’d give it a try.

I lived in a beach house that was almost always hot. I had two air conditioner units but the windows were cracked and the doors were not sealed. The start of summer reminds me of the smell of the ocean, even now, living on a completely different coast 15 miles from any waves.

Give me the sound of a fan struggling to move the air around an apartment and I can conjure a memory of running on heat too heavy for feet, sand stuck in the wrinkles of my hands as I try and unfurl the water hose from it’s resting place, my father’s voice in my ears “Don’t bring sand into the house Josie,” and my relentless reply, “But it’s the beach Dad!” He would cut the grass with a machete, I would water the wannabe green lawn with the same hose, wearing platform sandals, hoping that maybe this extra bit of love would help her grow something other than sand spurs. It never worked.

When I left that beautiful place I will always call my home I swore I would come back with enough money to buy her from my father, or at least take up some financial burden. I had dreams that were higher than the sky, greater than the greatest metaphor. When I return now my Dad pays for my way and I walk everywhere, because who needs a rental car in Neptune Beach?

I used to live in a beach house that fostered hope and love and kindness and care. I hope I can get back to her soon.