Seagrove Park, brine in the wood sign, live oaks alive on the cliffs. I like to sit now snapping the fat child fingers of iceplant, so heavy and damp on the inside.
Just here she would turn over and over on the grass, wanting to be touched by an exact quantity of light. She arranged me for shade. She would read and I would watch her read. Like I imagined things when we had children—how could I ever read when they were out playing in the ocean. Sand in the creases around my eyes with the green in them given to the children mixed with grey, stirred with light.
I cut out the veins in all the leaves I’ve torn down from trees whose names I don’t know. I sit still believing in their vasculature even though it flows away.
The ocean today. A beautiful god. Huge puzzle pieces of navy and sea-green distinct all the way out to horizon. No ripples but glitter. I think an east coaster would have to admit the Pacific is just better.
Undertow—if she only would have left me Seagrove.