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theres this guy i grew up with who used to always talk about going to galveston and standing in the surf as the waves licked his feet. he talked about the smell of the air and how it would stick to you. he talked about the feel of sand between his toes and how weird it felt to pull his feet out of the sand after theyd sunk in up to the ankle. he talked about the sounds of the cars cruising the seawall and how childrens laughter could be heard from a mile away if the wind was right.
i remember he would sit and draw pictures of it during class. he was no artist but his sketches were compelling. one could almost sense the things he spoke of so often without ever having experienced them. his pictures were pencil renderings of the real thing but they held a hint of the reality that lay beyond them.
i remember exactly where i was sitting when the news hit. my world was rocked by the weight of it. how could anyone have guessed this would happen to someone so young? it was a tragedy with no explanation.
after that i thot of him every now and then and remembered his drawings and all the things he used to talk about. yet it all began to fade in my mind until the memories seemed to linger only as light lingers in the bulb for a fleeting moment after you switch it off.
ive been to galveston a few times since then and i always think of him. he was right. the sights sounds and smells are all just as he described them. the feel of it is just as portrayed. the beauty that place only thinly veiled in his drawings bursts open like a shaken can of soda when experienced first hand.
i picture him there...pulling his feet free from the sand and laughing as the stars sweep over the gulf. i picture him there and smile.
i was just a boy then...
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