Maybe it’s not youth at all. And if it isn’t, if it’s that thing inside of us, that buoyant promise, thrill even, of openness, openness that’s disguised as 60% water — then it never has to end. And maybe it’s all that water that we carry that keeps that hope afloat. Water that whispers in waves to fleeting youth, “it still can be done if you dare to meet me.”

So I, we, race to the water’s edge, some knowing ebb more than flow, but all assured that we will experience both. Knowing it isn’t a punishment, but a gift, if we keep believing. Keep looking beyond the sanded toes. Above the rocky waves. And feeling the strength of all that blue, all that open.