The road was lined with trees. They were the kind of many leaves that changed in the autumn months. Those, those months, were Nisha's favorite.
Her feet slapped the hard packed dirt, the grooved lines so many cars had made. The birds were still out, and singing, despite the lateness of the day.
"Nisha, honey," her mother had said before she left, "you go down to that beach and be back in time for suppin' 'cause yo' daddy's cookin' tonight and we all know how you like daddy's cookin'."
Nisha agreed. She did like daddy's cookin'. When he cooked it meant he'd shot something big, like a wild hog, or a stempa, which was even better. But the sun was still high enough for her to catch a glimpse of the boy who'd boasted the other day about The Rocks of Heracuma. Nisha didn't know if his boast had been a true one, but the boy said he was going to climb the biggest one. The one called Hectel'ora.
"Why not just climb it now?" Mica had ask.
"Because, stupid," said the larger boy. "The tides in. I can't even get to the base of Hectel'ora when the tides in."
And he was right.
Everyone who lived out here, and everyone who lived in the smaller fishing village knew how dangerous the waves and tides could be. You get caught in the surf, your as good as goner.
Nisha's watched her feet as she walked, making sure not to twist an ankle in a divet or rut. It rarely did any good. Nisha's body seems to grow without consulting her these days and because of it she kept breaking Momma's china by knocking it off the table with an elbow, or fumbling with a plate as she did the dishes. The shattered glass, the breaking sound. Why couldn't bodies just stay the same, anyway?