I’m afraid of leaving the beauty of this beach behind for fall.

My skin smells like strawberries and sunscreen; my fingertips are stained pink.

I sit in the same sand I have many times these past few months, remembering.

I spent days tanning and sleeping, laughing and gasping for breath, stumbling onto this sand after hours of fighting the waves and the undertow, urging myself not to be pulled forward by it.

Summer is over, I think officially now, and yet I’m still here fighting the current. I’m not ready to be pulled away by it, no matter how strong the undertow has become.

But I can feel it in the apple skin between my lips and the sunflower seeds floating gently away from their wilting mother. 

I can tell by my grandmother’s lipstick on my cheek and pinky promises to call, that it’s time to let go, but still, I keep fighting.

I don’t want to move on from long days and short, warm nights. I don’t want to waste time scratching pencils and blurry computer lights eating away at my energy.

I’d rather just sit here forever, with my arms in the familiar embrace of grainy sand and my feet in the water, the current a steady reminder of what’s to come.

I’d like to waste away more sunny months baking in my best friend’s kitchen and riding my bike on the same route over and over. I don’t want to think about what comes next. I’d rather drink another strawberry milkshake, binge-watch another rom-com, and eat lunch outside on my driveway in the sun. 

I long for a thousand more years to sit on this beach. To count the grains of sand and compare freckles to sunburns. If I had more time, I would lay here and shower in the rain of passing centuries; I would let the soles of my feet wrinkle with ancient waves, and my bones be sculpted by the current I’m fighting.

Then, maybe, I would give in and let it pull me forward. Only after the decades have stacked for too long would I be ready to let the summer sun die out and give way to the breathy, cool autumn days.

But I have minutes, not centuries. The wind is already picking up speed, and goosebumps on my arms hide the freckles. My messy floor is littered with brand-new notebooks and unused pens, laid out and ready for school.

I can tell summer is over because the oak tree in my backyard keeps dropping leaves on me; the Starbucks menu has changed, and I’ve started checking the weather before getting dressed.

Maybe it isn’t the end of the world. Because I have done all my summer work, and I love the new jeans I bought for fall. Apples are definitely in my top five fruits, and I love driving to school in the mornings with my windows down and my fall playlist blasting from my speakers.

It’s not the end of the world because I’m still lying in the sun-warmed sand now, and I know I will be again next year. Sure, I’ll have less free time between then and now, and I’ll have to do more homework and speak more Spanish than I would prefer, but I can’t wait around on this beach, hoping that seconds stretch into thousands of years forever. 

So I take a breath, smelling my sunscreen and strawberry skin, and let the undertow pull me calmly into the future.