Skipping stones

Unclear water, brown, uninviting, warm.

Along the path, down the steps, through the bush, onto the beach, there.

In our backyard.

Water long, not deep.

A man can stand out there, they said. A man, but not me.

The sand is half white, half an egg, yellow replaced with grey, broken segments of shell.

Soft on thonged feet, small, clasping.

I see my hand reaching to the sand, picking out of its hundreds and thousands, a fully grown abalone, no life inside but an iridescent skin perspiring silver.

My tiny hand encloses its face, it closes its eyes, preparing, knowing.

My arm extends, clips and whips in the face of the wind across the gutted liquid surface.

The shell first spoons, then jumps on the crest, down, up and over, punctuating the wetness with cutting accuracy.

It falls and sinks leaving ever-widening circles of discontent.