I rarely come here this time of year, the Parkway overloaded
with southbound cars and minivans stocked with beach balls and squawking kids.
Yet this time, this near the end of summer, I feel the sea call, feel the foam
wiggling with tine weaves between my toes, Captain Jack posed on the broken pier
a black up from the gold-trimmed Majestic where I always pause, as if one of
the Stations of the Cross, feeling the way of the moon as if I am part of the
tides.
I come here to bask in the sun on bench slightly above the
beach drenched in sunblock, beach umbrellas and screeching kids, life guard
whistles warning the small tops from getting in too deep, the riptide might eat
them even if the killer sharks don’t.
I come here to watch for dolphin who always remind me of
her, as much as the Majestic does, if for different reasons, her spirit thick
in the surf, which I cannot live without.
I come here as if dragged here by my hair (or some other part
of my anatomy), plopped down to relive something I never actually lived, never
having lain out on the silk sheets the way the gulls do here on the sea.
I come because I can’t help myself.
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