Remember Hull beach where we gathered shells the first semi-warm weekend last spring? We didn’t need coats and the tide was high, crashing and spilling beautiful cracked and whole shells at our feet. I was wearing bean boots and couldn’t move as quickly as you and fell prey to the undertow – feet and shoes sinking like hot stones through sand – when the water crested and rushed up to my knees. My thick cotton pants and feet full of ocean water I had to wring out for 20 minutes before getting into the car. I took photos of your long locs that day; you staring out into the horizon, the sun golden on your face and in your hair. I remembered you were my lover and felt incredibly lucky to be going home together.