You are there.
Even though I can’t see you anymore, you are there.
So, I keep my eyes shut. And keep you close.
We’re staring up at the stars. You say that you are bored. I say that it’s okay to be bored. And that the stars probably feel the same way about us.
A punch in my shoulder then you lean into me.
Light flickers on and off and on and off. A steady pattern. Left to right, left to right.
Not silence, but something like silence follows the lights.
A vacuum from a closing door followed by the air shift- ssssssssshp and full stop.
It sounds like a chase happening. Or sentence being cut off mid breath.
Or did the sound come first, a roaring, like crowds screaming at a baseball game.
A wave, then it passes.
I remember baseball. And the Skydome. And I remember thinking that this is the best, this is the best way to spend a day.
The breeze lifts the hair on the right side of my head.
You, me, a beach towel. And that argumentative seagull hovering nearby.
My dad told that joke about a dead seagull on the beach. A son asks about the bird. The Dad tells him the bird died and went to heaven. Kid comments, did God throw it back down here?
You don’t see a lot of dead seagulls. Maybe drowning is more common.
I smell flowers and bread and water.
Water? How could that be? And metal grating on metal? Strange.
There’s never enough time in the day. Seems like.
Seems like … we are about to leave. My keys in my pocket, you checking your hair. Where are we going?
Above are clouds; below is my bench. Around me people shift and talk and dammit some kid keeps screaming over there … so I focus on the breeze.
Sitting here reminds me of something.
‘Mike!?’
