I'm more of a door than a window

A delicate wind pushes strands of my hair back, an ocean spirit clearing my field of vision so I can see the water where I grew up. Hot garbage has never smelled particularly delightful until I came here. I know for a fact it wasn't just family guiding me through those years. You were there, I'm sure. Why else would I have known how to swim in six foot waves, giants back then, before I could stand on my own two feet?
It seems like only yesterday the three mile walk to the pier took an eternity, the rickety pillars never getting closer. Now I can clear the run there in twenty minutes, flying by deserted bonfires and power-walkers, leftover foam from the waves finding a home on my bronzed and calloused feet.
You have united us, you have separated us, you have treated me well and encouraged me to grow.
I will never forget the sequence 40290, the tacky memorabilia and the closet that never opened. I know exactly how many steps it is from the front door to the beach - 98, if it isn't too crowded, and if you don't run into any lizards. 5 loaves of garlic bread gone in a night, and 247 sprinkles at the ice cream parlor.
The waters - your waters - have told me it's okay to need to hold someone's hand, it's okay to swim where only your toes skim the soft ocean floor, and it's okay to fall asleep on a surfboard, where your dreams are in sync with the waves, which in turn are in sync with the moon.
There's a reason why I liked those purple shells so much, mom - but no, I still don't have a favorite color. They are rough, ridged, almost damaged on the front, white and grey stripes maybe making them look just like every other shell. The outside is worn down from countless years of sand scratching at them, wind gradually eroding their skeleton, the only thing they have known for so long. But turn them over and you plunge into another world. Infinite shades of purple blend together, every one of those shells with a distinct shade. These shells smell like salt, they smell like their home, they smell like my home; there isn't a difference. This purple acts like a magnet, relating to me in a way I can't explain.
Occassionally lines of this enchanting color will cross, or maybe the rough white and grey from the other side bleed into the back, but they're not insignificant. They're just telling a story of where they came from.
Where I came from.