My Grandfather’s Hand. By Ciara McLarnon

The beaches sand was like sprinkles of toast, burning my fragile feet, as I walked slowly to the Irish bay. The sea shells were carefully positioned upon the ground, either hidden in crevices, or drifting from side to side, as if the tide had written an Ode to them.

The water circled my foot. It tickled, almost as my mother tickled me-gently and playful. As I looked upon the bay, a rough, stone cold, loving hand, held my shoulder in place. Right then, I knew where I was and where I needed to be.