That’s the thing about sand. It gets under your fingernails and sinks into every wrinkle. It clings to every piece of fabric and fills your shoes. It stays with you, no matter how far you go. For the next few days and months you will wash and wash but there will always be a few grains left.
And alongside those grains sticks a memory, a moment that replays with each step that digs the little specks into your feet. You get used to the pain, the constant itch, because no matter how bittersweet, it's nice to reminisce.
But the little pricks don’t come with the cool breeze of the ocean, with the laughter of children and the relaxation of tired muscles. They come with hot summer sun that was never really summer. They come with shaky breath and screams. They come with red.