Seafoam rushes between my five toes. Sand settles, heavy, on my prosthetic foot.
When I swing my thigh to kick it off, it takes so much force that — for just one instant — it feels like it’s my real foot out there, flinging sand into the tide.
Later, I will dismantle my “beach leg,” as I’ve been taught by my prosthetist, Tim.
I’ll rinse it in a cascade of fresh water in the bathtub and watch the day’s residue erupt, volcano-like, from within the footshell.
A mixture of sand and shells and ocean -- seemingly pounds of it — will thunk into the tub like wet cement. And I’ll spend more time bent over, chasing it into lumps and scooping it up with paper towels, than I did in the actual waves.
But for now, I’m here. Wading.
Feeling, with wonder, my two feet in the water.
I had forgotten how much I love the beach...
