June gloom, 2004.  I first find her behind one of the rocks on the vacant side of the beach, canary yellow windbreaker threatening to fall off her shoulders. A violent, salty breeze. The kind that dries out your mouth, your skin. Her grin is feral and her hands are unconsciously curled into fists when she offers me a sip of the can of cream soda, warm from sitting in her pockets. I dig into my mine for some softened taffy, a truce.

“I’m just here for the summer,” I warn, as we are scaling higher and higher up the rocks. The waves lap against my socks, our hands are coarse and bleeding.

“Lucky.” As we continue to climb, she tells me all the elegies she has collected. How the lighthouse’s beam broke and paused the day she was born. How her hippie parents took it as an omen but they didn’t know if it was good or bad, even though the light was fixed the next day. How her dad still decided it was a bad sign after a couple years so he climbed up these same rocks and spread his wings, soaring down into the heavy shadows of the sea. How her mother stopped believing in omens after that and now owned the kitschy tourist shop next to the ice cream parlor.

“So…do you believe in omens?” I ask when I catch up to her.

“I don’t know, I’m still lost for now. I guess I’m searching for them, so maybe yes. ” She stands up and wipes her palms down her thin dress, oblivious to the smears of red against the pale patterned sunflowers.

She reaches into the inner pockets of her windbreaker, pulls out a plastic bag filled with miniature paper cranes. They are meticulously creased and made of iridescent paper that she stole from her mother’s shop. She grabs a handful and closes her eyes, unfolds her palm and lets the cranes catch in the wind. Spiraling in the violent, salty breeze down into the water, their wings fluttering between colors beneath the sinking sun.

Go on, she whispers against the crest of my ear, pushing the plastic bag into my hands. We take turns freeing the paper birds until the bag is empty and the sky has become fire. Our fingers intertwine, sweaty and cold, as we preside in silence over the sunset and empty shore. She lets go of my hand once the night has become entirely velvet and the harsh light from behind begins to sweep across the waves, illuminating a million rainbow wings beneath its unforgiving glow.