She shifted her weight imperceptibly right to left, so the sand beneath her sifted, with what she imagined was an audible rasp, then locked again, the earth reassembled beneath her. Just ahead were ripples in the beach the wind had carved, waves in a dry mere that capped and broke and crashed with such slow dignity that only the most patient eye could follow their motion, day on day. If she practiced the smallest fraction of that patience, and held her eye on one hands-breadth of beach, the grains of that small wave could be appreciated; but if she wandered, if her interest drew her further from the moment where she stood (right then: right there), the detail blurred and merged, the grains became a texture then a whiteness in the sun, while the waves resembled ridges resembled ripples resembled an empty canvas where anything could be drawn.
Her breath: because she stopped, it started. And suddenly she noticed on the empty strand that 1) she breathed, and 2) she lived. So everything was softly set in motion.
— I should run on the beach.
By that she meant: I feel the hand of age upon my shoulder, my eyes smile but are sad, the lovely silk that was my hair is not as soft, my body’s own perfume has added must, or dust, I am not afraid of beauty’s loss, I am terribly, curably sad. There was no one in sight to receive that thought, and certainly none to hear the sigh, so it didn’t vanish: instead it blossomed gently, an off-white rose, its petals reaching for the light, then curling open, then wiltering, withering, and falling. As quick as that, a mound of petals. She could smell the fragrance on the wind.
She laughs in silence. —Those are cape roses, dear. Don’t imagine feelings take so easily to the air.
She sees the line of tide, where hastier waves encounter shore. The hour is low ebb, and the sea is quiet, preparing its return. She knows that looking south, the arc of sand grows smaller, to a line, like the upturned edge of the slightest crescent moon, to falter later in trees at the island’s horn. Looking north, no different, but for black stone jetties, tumbled in the barest line upon the sea, the slightest scratch, far as a crane could reach, deep as the stone could dive, not far. North and south would look like this, and she at rest in the sickle of the beach.
Now, if she lifted her eyes away from land… If she dared to lift her eyes, there was the calling water, the horizon line that was no line, and a terrible, incurable emptiness.
— Not so empty, after all. As many creatures down below as… but that’s a thought I use to dress the fact. What I feel is gulls’ cries, fishermen suffered to stay afloat above mysterious depths, ports and passages from here to there that disappear as quickly as the line a finger leaves in water. I won’t look today. I’ll walk an hour on the sand and will not look, not once. I will ignore Her, yes, ignore Her and be container for myself, not spill into Her today: me, the sound of sand I think I hear, and the whip of beach-grass at my ankles.
— I wish he were here.
The two thoughts share a single sentiment, because they are the same… share the moment with a lash of salt breeze and one cry of one gull, share it with the shhh of the last wave running out… with the flash of liquid crystal pulsing in the punctuation of her watch… with a church bell calling out an hour, or a service, or a death… with the rug-shake-snap of a flag out of sight… with the memory a lover’s indrawn breath… with a closing door in a distant room… with a wave of sand surrendering to gravity and wind. All the same, she thinks.
— The person behind the eye of the clown in the parade.
— The inward percussion of a balloon at the needle’s urging.
— The beauty of a meal as it reaches for the tongue.
— The sound I make when I am being sung.
Her weight shifts imperceptibly; the sand allows her another inch down. She does not lift her eyes; a cloud overtakes the sun. She takes a breath and draws the ocean in, filled as though the sea were diving in. She will not lift her eyes. She turns until she feels the wind, and everything at her back. She walks toward where the day will end. Not so bad. She finds a smile to wear upon her face, considers how to keep it there.
“State of Being” by Delawer Omar @ DeviantArt.com