Greta and me

Now, when I go walking upon that same stretch of coast, I fear I’ll see Anne.
It hasn’t happened yet, maybe it never will, but the clicking heels of Anne behind me is a sound that makes me wheel around with fear on stronger days, and pick up my pace in ignorance on more usual days.
I dread most to see her today, because today I’m walking with Greta.
Greta is not my new girlfriend; Greta is my new girlfriend’s daughter. She has strange falling locks of boy blonde hair and a propensity to bounce and giggle. She reminds me of Millie, Anne’s dog.
I guess if I’m going to see Anne, I’ll see Millie first. I wonder if Millie will recognise me still. I wonder if Anne will.
It’s funny that as the seasons roll on by and the storms and tides come and go, it’s difficult to tell the month when you’re at the beach.
I like to think my face is like the beach, weathering the beatings of nature and standing almost timeless, just shifting sands giving away its slow changing nature. But maybe I’m the only one who can’t tell I’m changing?
The wind picks up and slaps our faces and Greta has teary eyes. I’ll get her home now. I’ve avoided Anne again.