What Won't Leave

I've been finding it everywhere—

in my hair three days after the beach,

in the corner of the bathroom sink,

in the pockets of my coat.

Small. Stubborn. Impossible to fully remove.

I was brushing my teeth on Friday

when the sand fell into the basin.

I hadn't been to the beach since Tuesday.

That day had gone badly—

we didn't say much on the drive home,

and when I got here I started undressing

like I could just leave that day on the floor,

but it followed me inside,

gritty and small and determined.

Every time I think I've gotten it all,

I find more of it.

In the fold of my jeans.

In the lining of my bag.

Pressed into the rubber sole of my shoe.

It won't fully leave.

It keeps appearing, reminding me

that I was there, that something happened,

that I can't wash it away

no matter how many times I try.

The bathroom sink holds it in the corner—

a small grey pile that I keep sweeping away

but that keeps coming back,

grain by grain, as if the day itself

is still trying to tell me something

I don't want to hear.