I am preparing for vacation making a sort-of list, and I only wrote things, just things,
but they say we can’t sense time, only its momentum. Where is the tug of the sea against my salted legs in this litany of goods? Could I, should I tally the stars at night, after the steaks, wine, and rusted beach gear? Should we mention the blood-drunk mosquitoes, that hiss that leaves the air at dusk, all the old old songs sung way way too loud?
Every trip is a retreat, both ways. Heading out, we back up from a world far too close to list. We return, looking away, while the mirror sea ebbs out to an eeling edge, far too far to see.