Today is a winter day. I left home minutes ago. I walk on the beach of Paço de Arcos and think of the people who were here in summertime. Where are all those people who left their memories here? I believe that, now, at this very moment, they are scattered around the world. They came from somewhere, spent hours on this beach, and left for anywhere. The sand remains here. Later in the evening, perhaps a couple of lovers will leave their footprints on the wet sand, perhaps a man will walk here with a large white dog. The dog will lift grains of sand as it runs to fetch pieces of wood that the man will throw into the distance. Like me, they too will feel the serene beauty of this beach in winter.
When I was little, I was afraid of the waves. When my grandmother came with us to the beach, she would always sit on a towel. I played games with my sisters. They laughed at me because I was afraid of the waves. My grandmother never took off her black blouse and black skirt, her black scarf on her head. That’s how she would look at me and my sisters. My mother, sitting next to my grandmother, would talk and do lacework. When my sisters entered the water, their shoulders and faces were turned toward me. They rose and fell with the waves. They would call me. I would look in their direction. I would step forward just as the water began to retreat on the sand, as if wanting to go back into the sea. But when the water burst, when it launched itself onto the sand, I would run back to the towels. My sisters laughed; they were children too. At that moment, my grandmother would stand up slowly. Then, we would walk hand in hand, along the shore. I can still feel my grandmother’s hand. She would walk on the side closest to the sea, the water would wrap around her feet, burying them in the sand for a moment.
Today, now, I lift my gaze over the beach, directing it toward the sea. This body of infinite water extends far beyond what I can see, like time. When I was little, I walked with my grandmother hand in hand along this beach of Paço de Arcos, this sand. I watched the boys playing ball, the girls carrying small buckets full of sand or water. We walked away from the spot where we had started, and when we turned back, it felt like we were very far. It was at that moment that my grandmother would ask us to stop; she wanted to look at the sea. Through the sea, she looked far away. Today, I believe that my grandmother could see farther than I could. The distance she fixed her gaze on when looking at the sea was much greater than I could see, much greater than I can see in this exact moment. Perhaps my grandmother, as she looked at the sea, could already see the place where she is now.
The waves throw themselves onto the sand and onto this winter morning. The steps with which time advances through the sea, invisible, floating in the air, can be compared to the steps I take now. I look at the sea; I know it is made up of so many summers and winters. I see the sea. I know the sea is memory.
