The sound of the wind through the grass, which was high and dense enough to swallow a person whole, reminded me of how far I was from the ocean. I had not visited the ocean since a dark February night in Portugal, where, like a ghost, a thin line of white changed shape and disappeared into the black with a mighty roar. The smell and taste of damp salt, the electric air— sand nesting my feet. Here, the grass moved in waves, not with a roar, but a long sigh. The salt came from my own sweat, and the mud threatened to suck me in. I found peace in the flatness, in the green, but I missed the open water and its endless horizon.
