I am a friend to the sand, to the swath of washed up coquina shells, to my long shadow that stretches down the beach towards the ocean. I am a friend to my notebook pages that flap in the sea breeze, to the bright orange swim shirt my son wears, to the jagged choppy waves.

I am a friend to my mom’s red-strapped canvas L.L. Bean bag that says Mamma S? The single letter after Mamma is worn off — I’m not sure if it was a B for her first name, an S for her last name, or something else. I am a friend to the red folding nylon chair I sit in, with its mesh cup holder for my phone, and its carrying bag with a strap I can put over my shoulder to tote it hands-free when we go back to the car and I need my fingers for flip-flops and fun noodles.

I am a friend to the bubbles the Atlantic makes as wave remnants swash up the beach on their journey across great distance: they’ve travelled to the edge of the sea. I am a friend to the white froth of the crashing waves, the green-brown-blue water of the Georgia coast.

I am a friend to the dead reeds washed ashore, to the sand castles made from carefully dumped buckets, to the cobalt blue shovel and the hot pink plastic pail. I am a friend to my son’s black soccer slides, my daughter’s watermelon flip-flops, and my brown leather Rainbow sandals with the braided straps.

I am a friend to this olive green surf skirt with pockets for my phone and car keys, this skirt that has been with me to Hawaii, Tybee, Anna Maria, Sarasota, the Outer Banks, Mexico, Claytor Lake, that has covered bathing suits and birthday suits, that has faded and needs to be retired but I can’t bear to let it go.

I am a friend to the black hairband on my wrist, to the gray cap on my head that contains flyaways when the wind is blowing and I want to focus on writing instead of pulling strands of hair out of my eyes and mouth.

I am a friend to the white wisps of cirrus clouds high in the dome of the atmosphere. I am a friend to the teal of the evening sky, the tan of the beach, the shell pink of my toenail polish. I am a friend to the black ink that gives form to my thoughts on these white, blue-lined pages.

This was a 10-minute free write inspired by Natalie Goldberg’s prompt to list inanimate objects in response to the phrase, “I am a friend to…” The intention is to pull us outside of ourselves, to wake us to our surroundings and help us pay attention. The angle of the prompt — “I am a friend to” — also helped me have gratitude for these simple, beautiful things that I might otherwise just observe (or not observe) and move on with my life.

Last night on the back deck¹ was cool and breezy. Wind blew wisps of hair from behind my ears, and it brought the briny scent of salt marsh and air blown across the Atlantic ocean. This morning when I stepped out of my parents’ front door — the front door of my childhood home — the world was still and muggy.

On the empty street, surrounded by palmettos and palm trees, Lantana and azaleas, I started to put my ear buds in. I hate running, and the only way I can get through it is by listening to music.

But just as I began to muffle the sounds of the outside world as I slid the second white ear bud in, a cicada started up, then a hundred more joined in until my ears rattled with the buzz of cicadas in the still morning air. Island and marsh birds joined in with their morning calls. I pulled the ear buds out and stuck them in my sports bra.

Up by the bridge, a white-haired man in madras shorts and a plaid shirt walked along the edge of the black pavement, a lit cigarette dangling from his fingers. He moved with the agility of youth, but his face looked like he was 1000 years old, deeply wrinkled from a lifetime of wind in his eyes and of sun and smoke on his skin. He rasped out, “Good morning,” and I good-morning’ed him back. I don’t usually hear when people say good morning because of headphones; it was quite nice.

Near the highway, afer a mile of running on a narrow snake of land surrounded by Spartina grass, sea ox-eye daisies, marsh mud, and puddles of salt-water left behind at low tide, I saw a brassy-haired woman walking up ahead of me. Her hair was loose and yellow-orange. I remembered that color from a childhood on the coast, women and men both trying to lighten their hair. Lemon juice, peroxide, cheap home dye jobs. Natural blonde is not an easy color to recreate, and the southeast coast is filled with brassy blonde instead.

On my way home, I heard the scuttle of hundreds of toothpick-tip legs tapping green fronds: fiddler crabs scurried for cover on the dense palmettos when they heard my clomping approach. Listening to music, I’d never heard the scampering of fiddler crabs despite dozens of runs along this stretch of road.

Now I’m back on Mom and Dad’s deck, this time in the screened portion. I’m covered in salty sweat and mosquito bites, and the air is still not moving. The piling driver on the river, here to repair docks blown apart in Hurricane Matthew, has started its metallic ka-thunk, ka-thunk, ka-thunk of pounding pilings deep into marsh mud. The sound echos across the water. It might be time now to put the ear buds in.

1. I had to consult my “Balconies, porches, and patios – a primer on the language of outdoor seating” post to know if I was using the correct word for where we sat last night — porch? deck? balcony? It could also be a balcony, but we never say balcony at home, so I opted for deck.

This is my entry for the Daily Post one-word prompt: brassy.