Unseasonably cool weather sent children to the beach in droves, wearing sweaters. Naturally, sand snuck into the knitted woolen loops. Each playful scoop shoveled onto the sandcastles (where ice minnow princesses jousted with icicles, romanced a cod, and died) let a few grains spill into the heavy, fuzzy yarn.
There was a duneside path to the beach. Easy enough to go in, when it was downhill, and your sweater was light and care-free. But by the time you had spent an afternoon playing, your toes were good and cold, and your sweater weighed nearly as much and as much again as your tiny body. Walking up the path, away from the beach and the beautiful shore, became a battle of physics. Gravity conspired against you.
A few strong youths made it out, but most children eventually abandoned the struggle, leaping back into sand pits and wishing for campfires to stay warm. And the sun kept fading daily into duller and duller echoes.
There are nights even now when building bonfires draw them out in droves, the abandoned children of gravity beach. They come with their baggy sweaters and their pale, chilled hands. They creep close to the fires clutching sandcastle pails and plastic shovels that have been bleached to bone by the distant, cold sun. We toss them minnows. We shiver.