At The Edge of Eight
The tide lapped at my ankles that summer of '78, cool and quick. A relief from the soft hot sand beneath my feet. The late afternoon sunlight broke across the water in shifting patches that hurt to look at directly. We ran after the foam, stumbling over our own feet and each other, laughing until our sides ached and salt water wrinkled our lips. Everything felt possible then—like the world had no edges.
I found an odd piece of driftwood and sat to catch my breath. The ocean stretched out forever. Right then, nothing else mattered. The gulls sounded different, almost like they were talking—echoes of some ancient, arcane language. A fishing boat puttered somewhere in the distance, masked by the sun's glare. Its motor steady and low as if here and nowhere at the same time. I sat there, breathing in the salty air, feeling strangely calm for once. I was eight and balanced right on the edge of understanding something I couldn't name.
The same beach now has a seawall. Cars rush past where we used to shoot fireworks and hunt for shells. The horizon looks smaller somehow, cut up by buildings and the constant buzz in my head about work and bills and civilization collapse. I wouldn't want to go back anyway. That kid didn't know what was coming. Let him enjoy that piece of blissful ignorance. Selfishly, so it may one day sustain me.
But sometimes in the summer when I'm driving or washing the car, it surfaces—that afternoon when everything glowed. Not the whole memory, just the feeling of it. Like finding something in your pocket you forgot was there. A tiny treasure. Proof that the world still has that brightness in it. It's just harder to see through all the noise.
That light never really goes out. It just gets buried under years of learning what's realistic, what's safe, what keeps you alive in a world that doesn't much care. But it's still there, waiting at the edges.
Now, a thousand miles away, I walk the greenbelt through the city's edges. Building lights flicker on like scattered stars. The same breath that once rose with salty wind rises now with the scent of rain on concrete.
I still carry that moment as a promise to myself—then and now. That feeling keeps me steady when everything else feels like it's falling apart—as it all too often does.
29 August 2025
Dean Bowman