Old People at the Beach

I absolutely love old people at the beach.
They are so lovely; holding hands, slowly making their way across the treacherous dunes.
They do not speak. All they have to do is hold hands. They have this wise understanding, a certain aura about them. It is almost as if they have, and probably have, walked the beach many times in their lifetime, and they just know. I don't know what they might know, but it is something quite remarkable. They are taking in the beauty of the ocean, that same beauty they have hundreds of times before, and they are taking it in together. The ocean is too beautiful for words, so they do not speak.

I have been watching this one couple in particular for quite some time, and they just know. It is almost as if the ocean makes everything right, their understanding is beyond words, and there is nothing pithy or distracting in this noisy world to taint the beauty that they possess. Only the ebb and flow and crashing of the waves, the wind blowing their grey hair, the deep crevices of their wrinkles contrasting with their glowing-still-in-love faces.

Beautiful. Old people are beautiful, especially on the beach. Maybe only on the beach.
One day when I'm older, I either want to be an Italian grandmother cooking for my large family with my hundreds of bambino grandchildren running around throwing olives at each other, or I want to be on the beach, with my wrinkles glowing. I might even have a purple rinse in my grey hair, like Mrs. Sloakum.