Reaching for the Sun.

Four grains of sand emerge from a pair of Swimming shorts, hidden in the back of a bag in the corner of a closet.

A mountain of nostalgia, a left hook, a petal, a kiss.

Memories long forgotten emerge to the forefront in a rush of color. For a moment, You are not in Toronto, you are in Cuba, amid the sun and sky and trees.

Just as you reach, just as you grasp, just as you reach out, it's gone.

The memory is still there, but it has receeded. The vivid view, the perfect eyes, the time machine, it's over.

You barely felt the sea water, the indentations of your feet in fresh wet sand are gone. Bikini clad folk become faceless blurs, tropical sounding music becomes the wind.

You look down at the floor and search for the grains of Sand, hidden somewhere in the carpetting like diamonds in the rough. You search and search and search, hoping and pleading and cursing the poor lighting and eventually begging for just one slight grain of sand to hold, to help remember.

But you don't find it.

You're in Toronto.

And it's cold outside.