Stranded Bikini

Since coming back from Florida, I’ve left my bathing suit on the towel rack in my bathroom. It’s all dry now, but I’m reluctant to put it away. Its blue and white stripes and stings hanging there make me think of summer, and I can almost trick myself into believing that I’m living near a beach again. My happiest water memories are attached to the ocean in Maine and a small lake where one of my oldest, dearest friend’s family has a summer house. A whole wash of images and sounds and sensations are triggered by a swimsuit hanging to dry: sun drenched afternoons where everything gets warm and very dry, smooth docks and rafts, cold water that takes my breath away and makes my legs tingle, sand between my toes, Copertone, flip flops and crunching shells beneath them, slamming screen doors, pine needles, tangly hair, goose-bumps, warm sand under the towel molding to my every curve, riding a perfect wave on a boogey board, happy shrieks, utter satisfaction and pleasant exhaustion after spending an active day in the sun.