I recall the fresh sandwiches wrapped in tinfoil, the extra juice in a clear bottle, Agatha Christie's books packed in twos just in case I could read a whole book in a few hours.
The stubborn folded chairs, the clean towels, and the golden sand, sneaking through the seams.
The waves, the wind, and the seagulls fluttering about, announcing a storm.
"It's your turn," someone said.
I look at my pieces and I have nothing but an apple. The tray beams with words, but my only thought is... The sun still shines. They are gone... But the sun still shines.