At the beach

As children, we sat in the trunk of the car - for us, it was a place of freedom. We visited every beach until we found the quietest spot, far from the crowds, where we would set up our umbrella.

After burying one another in the sand and building sandcastles, we raced across the scorching shore beneath the blazing sun. Our mother taught us how to listen to the seashells we collected. She said that a shell is part of the sea and never forgets its sound.

Whenever I longed for home, I only had to hold a shell to my ear and hear the familiar murmur of the waves. I remember the light more than anything. It scattered into thousands of restless sparks. The surface of the sea shimmered until it became too bright to look at. It was too alive to ignore. It was hot.

We ran across the burning sand without direction. Nothing held its shape for long. The ground burned - not gently, but instantly. The moment our feet touched the hot sand, we leapt. Movement had become instinct.

The people in these memories are often present without being fully seen. Voices remain without bodies. Laughter reaches me like an echo - endless, overlapping moments scattered into fragments that leave their trace. In that overwhelming light, everything stretches endlessly, everything is felt at once, and then suddenly disappears.