I need boots. But I don’t have boots. So I just live with the uncomfortable, rocky feeling of sand and dirt in the bottom of my dirty, muddy, converse for two hours. I like to pretend I’ll make a sand castle with all the debris I’ve collected over the course of the evening, even though such a feat would be utterly impossible.
When I would go to
Later, once the threat of sandy upholstery had been eliminated, we would always exclaim, “Wow! That’s enough sand to make a sand castle,” so that’s what I think of every time I dump my shoes out. Little ant-sized sand castles that sit outside my car door. Little sand castles that no one knows about other than me.