Big White Towel

Wrapped up in rough white comfort, hiding in the huge white cave, protected from the world or at the very least hidden. Fabric softener pervading the air, wrapping my arms around my dad's knees while he dried my hair. Rough hands on head, the world shaking inside my skull, trying not to move at all, waiting for it to be over. And there were other colours. Reds and blues and yellows and greens, purples and oranges, softer towels laid flat on the sand. Sunlight reflecting all around, a sense of stillness with waves gently crashing a hundred metres away. Muffled conversations, voices thrown across the sand, bouncing once or twice before being buried. A second towel or the corner of my beach towel curled up over my head, almost stifling in the glare of heat but at least my eyes would have their reprieve. Always a memory of a mother or a sister or a girlfriend, wrapping up their long hair in a towel, a makeshift turban, curled perfectly and poised atop, designed to avoid falling over the eyes. Now the towels are smaller, they no longer cover me from head to toe, even the larger ones are just enough to pull the water from my skin so I can hang them back on the rack. And they remind me when they need to be replaced by their musty smell, their damp mouldish odour. Nothing as satisfying as a high thread count Egyptian cotton, fresh from the washing machine to dry me and make me presentable again.