Impressions in the Sand

This evening I sat on the beach, alone, and watched the waves come rolling into land and crashing against the sandy shore. The moon was starting to rise in the sky directly in front of me and shone a silver blanket over the water which stretched across the horizon.
I gazed in wonder at the sight, the enormity of the wide expanse of ocean and the power of the waves. I turned my eyes to the sand and watched as hundreds, thousands, perhaps even millions of gains were swept into the sea with each new wave.
Without each individual grain of sand, the beach where I was sat would not exist and yet as I watched the savage sea take hold of so many and pull them away I realised that individually there was little to no sign of them ever having resided here. The beach appeared almost identical in appearance throughout, despite the havoc being reeked beneath the water’s surface.
Occasionally I spotted a larger pebble or stone which would leave an impression in the sand where it had once lay before being displaced and dragged out to sea. These would last for longer, sometimes surviving two to three waves whilst other stones and grains of sand would attempt to fill the spaces they had left behind.
Eventually, over time, I knew that those indentations left by displaced pebbles and stones would no longer be distinguishable, that new indentations would appear, but any evidence of the previous night’s stones or their existence in that exact place on the beach would be lost forever in the ever changing landscape.
I rose to my feet and began to make my way back home, on foot. As I did so I passed by a young couple, they were holding hands and skipped past me happily. I greeted them with a friendly “Good evening.”
The girl smiled back jovially and the guy said a polite “evening,” in return as they passed me by. They were in their mid to late teens, most likely still in full time education and unfettered by the troubles that awaited them in adulthood. It was a strangely satisfying sight to behold – the beauty of young, naive innocence. I continued my walk across the beach to the footpath that led up the hill into town with a more jubilant bone in my step.
I turned my head back to see the couple walking away into the distance and began to wonder at what point they would forget my existence, and I theirs. Whilst they had acknowledged my presence politely, my contribution to their story had been minimum at best. I had been nothing more than a grain of sand on their beach, there for just a brief moment of time to be forgotten ever after. This sombre thought dampened my spirits and my pace slowed as I turned back to the steep hill ahead of me.
The thought caused me to look down at my footprints in the sand as I walked. I saw the faint outline of each individual toe, the balls of my feet and heels. These were uniquely my feet, like none others on the beach. I was due to depart in the morning and these would be the last set of prints I laid down on this beach, and soon to be erased after my departure.
I brushed the excess sand off my feet back onto the beach and slipped my shoes on. I hadn't quite removed all the sand, there was a minor pain as I felt the scratching of the sand against my skin, but I only had a short journey so I would manage the discomfort, besides, it wasn’t something I hadn't experienced a hundred times before.
I continued on my way and in little time found myself climbing onto the bus that would take me back into town. I took my seat by the window near the middle of the vehicle on the pavement side. Across the aisle from me, sat on the offside, was a young lady, possibly in her mid twenties; she had black hair underneath a silk pink scarf which was partially transparent and matched her pink and white coat. She had light brown skin, and dark, ruby lips which sparkled in the light from the bus. She had beautiful, big brown eyes, the colour accentuated in contrast to the whites which surrounded each iris and rested beneath her thin, perfectly sculpted, black eyebrows.
She was gazing down at her phone, possibly reading a text message or scrolling through her social media. Her thumb rested on the phone screen and occasionally gave a gentle upward motion giving the indication of her scrolling.
For a short while I sat and admired this woman, whom I had never laid my eyes on before. Not that I had any romantic intentions, she was twenty years my junior and would likely have very little in common with me - up to now I had failed to find many people who did. And yet for those few seconds I took some small enjoyment from seeing such natural beauty.
She had a kind and caring face, her expression appeared to be neutral, bar for the slight upturn of the corners of her mouth indicating a slight, unconscious smile. It is strange how quickly we can draw opinions of people based on the briefest of looks, no words or actions, we simply see a vague expression and immediately draw a first impression. I often wonder what impression people would draw from my appearance – would it be positive or negative? Was I somebody they would be drawn towards or repulsed?
She looked up from her phone and across towards me. I realised I had been watching her for too long; had she sensed my attention or even spotted my gaze from the reflection on the mirror beside her? I quickly looked away and stared towards the front of the bus for a short while then turned my head back to the window beside me.
I wanted to turn and check whether she was still looking in my direction, but I knew that to turn my head back in her direction so soon would have raised suspicions. And so I simply stared at the back of the seat in front of me and contemplated the sand on the beach once more. Had the waves reached my footprints yet? Had the final remnants of my time here been removed from the landscape or was there still something of me being retained.
It struck me, that even if my footprints had been allowed to survive the evening’s tide, even if they had been filled with concrete and set to remain on the beach permanently, they would do so nameless. I pictured families walking past these two concrete feet; children stepping onto the raised toes and giggling as they jumped off them like small diving boards and making their own prints on the sand as they landed.
I wondered if one of the children might ask, “Dad? Whose feet were these?”
He would reply, “I don't know son. Someone who was here long before us, and will remain long after us.”
“You mean forever?”
“Yes son. They'll be here forever.”
I paused in thought. Even in concrete they wouldn't be there forever. The concrete would someday succumb to the elements and my insignificant existence would once again be forgotten in the tides of time.
A sudden movement caught my attention from the seat on the other side of the bus. I chanced a casual glance in her direction, but quickly withdrew as I saw her face looking directly back at me.
Had she seen something in my expression like I had seen in her hers? Perhaps a look of friendliness. Was she looking at me because she had seen me looking at her and was seeking a human connection, an acknowledgement from another person that she existed, not just as a physical presence, but as a sentient being that mattered. A pebble in the sand that left its mark.
Alternatively, she may have simply been facing me out of concern, because of my own actions. My first impression of her was that of a beautiful, sweet and caring woman, but perhaps my own facade wasn’t quite as appealing. It would be a radiant question to ask, why had I been staring at her? What made me think I had the right to look at her? Perhaps she had been previously subjected to unwanted attention, perhaps worse and was trying to figure out my intentions or even to dissuade me from attempting any form of interaction.
I sat staring vaguely out the window beside me, daring not to look to my right at the risk of being thought some kind of stalker or predator. There were a couple of pedestrians walking alongside the bus on the pavement outside. They were walking side by side, possibly together, but with enough distance between to suggest a more platonic relationship existed between them.
On closer inspection I realised that I recognised them both. They had been old school acquaintances. Of course they had aged significantly since then, being almost forty years ago. One of them had increased around the waist, whilst the other still seemed to have retained a relatively slim figure, but also lost a little more hair. I thought back to my school days, at the time these two would never have associated with one another, they came from two entirely different worlds. In simple terms one had been one of the popular kids whilst the other was a nerd.
I couldn't recall any specific animosity between them, but neither could I recall any signs of friendship. I suspected they probably lived in relative harmony, generally unaware of the other’s existence. They would have undoubtedly shared some classes together, but my memory was hazy as to what those may have been. Perhaps this friendship developed outside of school; maybe as their respective peer groups disintegrated in the passage of time, these two found commonality in the ensuing isolation. Or perhaps they were always destined to be friends, they just needed to escape the hierarchical pressures of the school yard to enable their friendship.
As I stared out the window, I thought I caught the eye of one. Would he recognise me? After such a long time did I still retain sufficiently recognizable features to be attributed to my schoolchild self. Just as importantly, did I make enough of an impression on them at the time that they would even recall me?
I wasn’t cool enough to be one of the popular kids, nor was I smart enough to be a nerd. I wasn’t lonely as a child either, I had friends, but more out of necessity than choice and I lost touch with all of them a number of years ago. Either way I hadn't ever been in the same friendship group as either of these and therefore it was highly likely that they wouldn't even remember my name.
Despite my doubts, it genuinely appeared as though the smaller, fatter of the two was looking back at me. His head was quite clearly turned to his right and there was an expression on his face to suggest he was concentrating on something. It was possible he had seen my face and was trying to place it, that would explain the furrowed brow.
I went to wave my hand to offer an acknowledgement that I recognised him, and that in turn would possibly confirm to him that we had been former acquaintances. Such a simple response as a wave could possibly evoke a childhood memory that would help reconcile my face with my name. I saw him start to lift his own hand and wondered whether he was doing likewise, if he had recognised me and was waving in recognition.
My hand was halfway in the air to respond when I suddenly withdrew from the action and thrust it back on my lap. I realised that focused expression wasn't on me at all. He raised his own hand as if to wave at first, but then continued beyond a wave to the top of his head and started brushing his fingers through his hair. Clearly he had not seen me, but his own reflection in the glass and was adjusting his appearance. I had to admit he had a fine head of hair for his age, certainly in comparison to my own receding hairline.
Realising that as far as they were concerned, i was just another man in a late evening bus, it also occurred to me that the two of them seemed to be walking at a speed consistent with that of the bus. We were either travelling in heavy traffic which was fairly unusual for here at this time, or were slowing to a stop. Sure enough as my mind pondered the reason for our decline in speed, a bus stop appeared in the window and I saw the reflection of my neighbour rising from her seat to disembark.
As the bus pulled to a stop I could see her heading for the exit at the front. I continually took fleeting glances, dropping my eyes to prevent discovery, but to my surprise she didn't look back, not once.
She carried a large cream bag over her shoulder. As she stepped off the bus my eyes turned to the window and the bus stop where I anticipated her to pass by my window. From my seat I could just see her through the window, her bag slung over her shoulder and beside her was another figure, possibly female, with long dark hair and big black coat.
Owing to the angle of the bus and the window I could only just make out the two figures, there may have been more. The two women embraced with a quick, affectionate hug and then began to walk away from the bus stop and out from view. I was certain that even from my limited view of their backs, the second female had not been on the bus.
We waited at the bus stop for little over a couple of minutes. Even so, when we departed, my travelling companion had disappeared completely from view into the night.
My stop was to be next. I checked my pockets for my phone and keys. I could feel objects in both pockets, so I was confident that I hadn't mislaid either, but I always double check before leaving any mode of transport - just in case. Past experience has taught me to be overly cautious with my personal possessions in such circumstances.
Having confirmed the presence of both my phone and keys, I rose to my feet and pressed the large red button with the word stop clearly printed. A faint bell rang and a digital monitor overhead at the front of the bus indicated my request had been received and that we were stopping.
As I made my way to the front of the bus, an older lady with grey, curly hair, possibly 70 years or more, appeared behind me with a pushchair with infant fast asleep, mouth wide open, catching flies. It was likely the child was her grandchild, but it was difficult to recognise whether there was any resemblance to confirm the fact.
The sight was a little comical; the lady was no more than five foot tall, possibly a couple of inches shorter. Whereas most people would have to lean over, the pushchair was almost too high for her with the handlebar parallel with the height of her shoulders. And yet she seemed determined, pushing the chair down the aisle to stop within a foot of myself.
The pushchair wasn’t particularly large, but I could see that owing to her own small figure, manoeuvring down the steps would be a challenge. As I stood by the doors I turned and asked, “Would you like a hand with the steps?”
I tried to be the least patronising as possible, but clearly I failed as she responded rather abruptly, “No thank you. I can manage.”
“Are you sure? It's no problem.”
“Exactly, it's no problem, and that's why I can manage. You think just because I'm older I can't lift a simple pushchair down a couple of steps? I'll have you know the pram I had for my own children was double the size of this thing, no, triple the size.” She seemed very angry, unnecessarily when a simple “No thank you,” would have sufficed.
I could possibly have turned away at that point, I had completed my moral duty by offering to assist, I couldn't be blamed if she didn't want my help. But the lady seemed so incensed by my offer to the extent that she wanted to continue to verbalise her annoyance and for some reason I seemed contented to listen.
“Anyway, what makes you think you'd do any better than me? Why, we're about the same age aren't we?” This felt like an insult. I was surely 20 years her junior at least, did I look that old? I didn't have the opportunity to interrupt her, so I simply remained silent as she continued to lay into me, barely taking a moment for breath. “And don't say it's because you're a man and I'm just a dear old lady because I tell you, when you've raised three boys like I have, you gain the strength of all three combined. Don't let my age or size mislead you, I'm far stronger than I look.”
She spoke at such a rapid pace, it was as though she had to get all the words out before the doors opened. Perhaps she was scared that I would attempt to assist unless she made it absolutely clear that she had not consented to this. She may have thought I would just take hold of the chair and drag it down the steps, with her pursuing furiously. The image of this little lady stumbling angrily down the steps behind, red faced and waving her fists in the air made me laugh to myself.
“You think this is funny?” she asked. I had lifted my hand to cover my face, but clearly that was insufficient. “Not at all.” I mumbled, hand still partially covering my mouth. “I was just thinking of something that had happened earlier.”
I knew that such a statement was opening me up to all manner of enquiries, but it was the best I could think of at the time. I needed a distraction, something to take her attention from me. I had already engaged with her, I couldn't just turn away, it would have been rude, so I needed some other excuse.
Just then, and to my rescue, the bus door opened. “Well, this is my stop, have a good evening.” I muttered politely and quickly turned to the entrance, stepping off the bus.
I expected to turn around to witness the hilarious scene of the old woman desperately trying to lift the pushchair off the steps and over the kerb onto the pavement. I felt guilty even turning around to watch; so what if she had been particularly rude, did it give me the right to take pleasure in her struggles?
Morally I knew I should just turn away, that no good would come from witnessing this disaster unfold before me, and yet I couldn't. Once at a safe distance, I turned back to the bus door, arms folded and smug grin on my face.
To my surprise, the old woman had managed the steps with ease.  Like an Olympic athlete, she raised the pushchair with just one hand and casually swung it down the steps and onto the pavement in one smooth movement. Her left hand redundantly hung by her side. I just stood with amazement, my mouth partly open, as she walked past me. Now it was her who had the smug expression.
I watched her walk down the road. At one point I thought she had turned around, but such was the shade and shape of her hair, in this lighting and from that distance it was impossible to say which side of her head I was facing.
I had come into contact with so many people in my life, made varying impressions on them, some good some bad. Would the couple I passed on the beach remember me? Would they return home and tell anybody about our passing? Or maybe the beautiful young woman on the bus, would she recall the guy who sat across the aisle from her?
Would my two former school mates recognise me? And finally the old woman. How would she recount the story to her grandchild’s parents? Would she even deem it worthy of conversation? Perhaps other events of the day would have taken precedence.
As I walked home, I thought back once again to the sand on the beach. I wondered when it was time for me to return to the sea, would I be like one of the pebbles? Would I leave any kind of impression on the lives of those I had met tonight or previously in my life? Or was I simply another insignificant grain of sand to be displaced by a million others just like me?