The Beach

     The Pacific Highway is foggy and gray. We’re driving along the ocean, through small towns, past Taco Bells and liquor stores and basketball courts and beaches. So many beaches. What is life when you live next to a beach? I don’t know if I’d be happier. Your first initial thought is that you would be, right? Living in fresh winds, eating cheap seafood. But I hate the way my hands feel after having been in the salt.
     We stop for gas a number of miles north of Santa Barbara. The air is wet against my naked arms and makes my hair look thicker than it actually is. I look good being this close to water. My skin moves with my body, not against it like during East Coast winter. The Southern California sun has decorated it with freckles everywhere. I quietly wish for someone to count them.
     My legs are a few shades darker than they were boarding the plane at JFK a week ago. They’re enjoying their freedom, being out of heavy vintage denim. Is free the right word for my look? And after all I love the way my body feels in the water. Light, easy to move.
     I’m soft by the beach. Open and vulnerable and, found. I’ve been told that to be soft is to be powerful and the beach is exactly that. A setting for love and kisses, and the force that bring us tidewater. Me too am drawn between the sun and the moon, filled with blue water, I am a setting for love and kisses.

 

2017-03-20