summer sentence
it is on the third day
that the words come back,
letters long absent
from your page,
but as you figure out how
not to spill the water
as you pour it into the
rented kitchen's coffeepot,
there they are,
stretching ahead of you
like line to a new boat,
and you grab hold
of that line
and hold on
because you know
what's coming
finally coming,
so you think twice
about the pink sunrise
you saw just a bit
ago
as you scramble the eggs
and scratch the grandog's nose
butter your toast
and serve up breakfast
for your kids who
are almost never
under the same roof
anymore,
and you think
some more
as you
butter yourself up
for a stretch out
in front of the ocean,
when you
will crack open
that new book
because you've already
read two
in the past days
as you listened
to the ocean
talk to you
for the first time
in many, many months,
you catch yourself thinking again
that you are
relieved
that the first book
is done because
you feared
so for the woman
and the boy
in that story,
and you found yourself
weeping at the end
of the second one
because you could
imagine how the man
and his wife, and
the girl
all felt
at the end of that one,
and yes,
you think still more
as you listen
to the churning
of that blue ocean
and watch
the pink-tutued baby
next door dabble
in the saltwater puddle
at her feet
and remember when
the daughter sitting
by you
with a book
in her hand
was just that size,
doing just that thing,
dabbling,
trying to
carry
a small bit of wave
in her tiny hands,
when you first brought
her to this beach...
so you take
a short walk
in and out
of other people's vision,
those
lining to beach
propped under
a kaleidoscope
of umbrellas
watching
the gulls,
the tattooed
girls,
lanky
boys
skimming
the surf
with their boards
and you wonder how they
can keep from
falling,
and you peer to see
what other folks are reading
on iPads and phones and
in actual books,
like the weathered woman
sitting where the seafoam
laps at her feet
who is in the final pages
of a good book about dogs,
so you walk on
and find yourself beneath
the pier,
and at once you recall
your
grandfather's
knotty
fingers
cutting blood worms
with an old knife
on the splintered pier bench
then plying
the bloody bits
onto a hook
for you
to cast
over the side,
and you think
how many times you
watched the water
and felt the tug
not knowing whether it
was fish
or foam
but you pulled it in
surprised
at
seaweed
or silver fish
biting,
and as you think
of those times
all those years ago
you remember
your father's thin
tanned fingers as he
stood on the pier
and slid his serrated
scaler on the surface
of the fish,
the fingers of his other hand
holding tightly to the
surprised
mouth and fins
of the spot
or bream
as scales flew
in every direction,
and you think of that summer
when he grew a beard
and you didn't like
that at all
or how that year,
the beach didn't
seem to soothe him
like it always did,
and on your way back
you look out over
the sea and the foam
and think of
how many times
you
walked this beach
with your dad
and how this
is your first
time, really,
without him
being here for
even a day or two,
when you are
and there you
are, making new
prints in the
moist sand
without him
by your side,
and as you make your way
back
you
wonder who
that girl was
so long ago who
that her daddy
loved so, so much,
then you spy your children
sitting there
by the sea,
your son's fresh beard
irritating you
just about as much
as your daddy's did,
and you
think how
many more stories
there will be
to tell of this place
even though
daddy can't
sink his
narrow
toes
in this
sand
anymore.
as writemuch.blogspot is the original work of author susan byrum rountree. all written work and photography is copyright protected and can only be used with written permission of the author.
