it is enough that it happened once.
The sun poured hot and grey gymkhana on our shirtsleeves- a thing which here was meant to keep our skin from the ocean serf: a spittle that bites and sometimes swallows. I've said before that our arms were white from the salt, but they were also scaled, early each day, from the catch.there were scales in every pocket, and some still cling to my wellingtons. No one wants to be forgotten. Leastwise the catch.
Taelyr, Do you remember that conversation we had? it lasted only a few sentences. it is a story. Two people love each other. they progress. their love is pure and longsuffering and they are patient. But their relationship culminates, and though they are romantics, they are also realists. They have something comparable to a wedding and take seriously the advice 'if you love it let it go.' they say goodbye and promise to remember each other fondly.
they kiss, then side-hug, then shake hands, then wave and say
'it is enough that it happened once.'
I miss the salt already, and the aching body. I could not hold my boots, my fingers were sore. my thumb most of all. it sounds trite, but that thumb is what sets us appart. it is how we pick things up. I picked up an apple. it tasted nice. it was like an apple you pick yourself. it was crisp and sour and more sweet on the side the sun had hit.
After i ate it my teeth felt warm and i stood, standing, at a library window.
I say it with a strait face because i mean it. I stood, standing, at a library window.
Fall is here, and when i was young, it meant the house smelt like the walnuts drying over our woodfire. I would sharpen sticks with birthday-knives and when the rain would stop, we'd spear slugs into a bucket on the hillside. our chickens would laugh, and our feet would track in mud. One summer, our young cat had had it's litte in the rafters of our shed. By the fall the cat and I had the eyes of those who've seen life as it is. My sisters cried and we buried each kitten with a shovel.
I grew up and went to college where all my friends are type cast. I spend my days swathed in sunlight and making lascivious hand signals at the passing crows. They have eaten the seedcorn and the plums in the icebox. It is because of them that me feet will be cold this winter. and because of them that i can't go home till Christmas next.