Fragments Like Sea Glass

water

There was a boy who went to sleep on a bed of kelp in the middle of the day, cradled and rocked, lulled by green-blue sea song older than existence.

"There are few things in life more pleasurable than bobbing around in the ocean on a summer day and looking at the land from there," said a friend of mine long ago.

Oh, I have enjoyed the thrill of an ankle splash now and then, but I rarely dare go further.

One Inauguration Day, Linette and I drank champagne and ran into the surf, she in her bikini, me in my rolled up jeans like J. Alfred Prufrock. The water was icy cold and we squealed. She went swimming in the distance while I squatted down until the water touched my neck, then I leaned back to let it wet my hair. Baptized.

Sometimes at night its familiar salty song reaches my room. I can hear its muffled crashing behind a foghorn or a passing train.

Once the sun broke into pieces that floated on its surface and I tucked a shard of light into my heart.