People go. Moving out. Moving home? Their semester complete. Knowledge gained. Or lost. Time lets the memories fade. It lets the feelings of love fade too, fade away to a pale yellow from the vivid green of life.

I explode out of the forest onto the road, down to the beach. I carry my bike across the logs and sand over to a secluded inlet. I pulled my flute out of its case. Tarnish spots the keys and the joints are sticky from months and months of disuse. But it still fits together. It balances cooly in my hands, just the way I remember. At first the fingerings are lost. I close my eyes. Breathe the ocean air and listen to the gulls screaming out on the water. Chromatic scale. Up then down then up then down. It's still there. Every fingering. It takes me a few minutes to connect the fingerings to the notes printed on the sheet music in front of me. Cross legged in the sand, I practice the same scales from grade 8 band class. It's soothing, the action of performing the scales. It's math and science. It's music. Counting, breathing.

Eventually the cold wind numbs my fingers.

I go home.