I go there to ask why I go there. I go there to pick up trash from the sand. In the sand, I draw a heart with my toe. My initial. My wife’s initial. The initial of our shared last name. Then, I make two footprints beside it and let the incoming tide bury my feet.  An elderly couple walks toward me along the hard sand. I do not want to talk.  They stop and talk.   “We are from near the Austrian border.”  The man moves his cigar from right hand to left so we can shake. My hand is…