I lived here, at the beach, all winter, writing on my blog last October, November, and December about the empty beach and the cold water.
Mornings, a few runners in black sweats appeared on the sand, their backdrop huge container ships and contrails.
Afternoons, I scoped out beachstones with calcite lines around them for my collection, now piled in a glass bowl near the piano in Garrett Park. Nights, I trained my binoculars on big orange moons off the balcony.
The quiet was absolute. Somewhere in it, intermittently, I became aware of the tides. Aware of the way I wasn’t aware of them, and of how they calmed me.
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Everyone’s here now, and it’s hot. The smoothed winter sand that made the beach look, from above, like an almond cookie, is pocked with shoveled wells and wetted sculptures. The wind ruffles not only the dune grass, but flags on lifeguard stands and the edges of blue umbrellas.
From our second-floor balcony, we hear constant little inrushes of speech on the boardwalk.
I’m forty-two. I’m done dating. I
Did he smoke on the beach? I told
He’s not my blood cousin. We can
Everyone’s here, but there’s still the same propofolic effect — calm, just this side of sleep.