Mum, flatten out your toes, she instructs, as we trudge through the deep sand, my toes curled under like bird claws. It makes it so much easier to walk.
I’m scared to take her advice, anticipating the sting of course grains grating against a long scarred-over yet still tender cut on the bottom of my left foot, right next to my big toe.
I slow down.
Urge her to go on ahead of me.
Try to work up my nerve.
My pace little more than a crawl, I count to three, relax my foot, and allow that thin jagged line, evidence of the razor clam shell that sliced a two inch gash into my skin a few years ago, on another beach, make contact with this one.
But not as much as I’d feared.
And it’s worth it, because I really do want to keep moving forward.