It takes about ten minutes to walk to the ocean.  Some mornings it takes an equal length of time to reach the kitchen . . . each step precarious until the rhythmic motion of leg muscles coax bones back into place. I hold off until afternoon to take walks.

Today, steering briskly passed shops and businesses, I headed straight to the beach.  The steel-colored water slapped whitecaps roughly against the shore. One ship traversed the horizon. A handful of beachcombers scavenged along the water’s edge.  The wind bit at any visitors brave enough to sit under the pavilion.

Although the beach itself continues for miles,  I knew I could linger only as long as the cold and the pain were endurable.  Once the hood on my parka was pulled up snugly and my hands were pushed deeply down into coat pockets, I was warm, and blessedly, the soft sand felt like cushions after the unyielding sidewalks.