Inhale.
I gently lift a turtle from the box.
Exhale.
I walk a few feet away.
Inhale.
I set down this treasure, my gift to the sea.
Exhale.
I watch carefully as my turtle, this tiny little life that has so many dangers to overcome, so many predators to escape, moves away from me. Looping and weaving, it gradually finds its way to the edge of the ocean.

I look around and see that all of the turtles have been released, and that everyone shares the look of awe and love and trepidation that I imagine is painted across my face. We watch through the dimly moonlit night for minutes, but it feels like hours.
In the morning, I walk down to the beach. I gaze out silently at the calm waters, and wonder where my turtle is and if it is alive. I hope so. I look down. All across the sand, as far as the eye can see, are little turtle tracks. Loops, swirls, and spots cover the beach.

I watch, contemplating, as the waves slowly lap at the trails, causing them to fade away. As the breakfast bell rings in the distance, I watch, the only reminder of the turtles gradually being swept away by the tide. My memories of that night may fade over time, but they have left an impression, just like tracks in the sand.