SALT & SOL

There is something about the light in Mexico that stays with me.

By late afternoon, everything seems to glow. The water catches the sun in impossible shades of turquoise, palm shadows stretch across the sand, and the heat of the day begins to soften beneath the breeze coming off the sea.

I remember the salt on my skin. Cold drinks with lime. The sound of water moving against the shore and that particular kind of tiredness that comes after spending an entire day outside — sun-warmed, a little windswept, and completely content.

Nothing needed to happen next.

You could sit there and watch the light change. Another drink might appear. Somewhere, music would drift into the background. Eventually the brightness would soften into gold, and the coastline would begin to look different than it had only an hour before.

I think those were my favorite hours — when the heat finally began to loosen its grip and there was nowhere else we needed to be. We'd linger a little longer, watching the light turn everything gold, knowing eventually we'd have to brush the sand from our feet and head back.

But not yet.

The water was still warm. There was still lime in my glass. And the sun hadn't quite disappeared.