Three cancellations have cleared my Thursday. Two excuses and a reason.
two told me: “Robin, I don’t want to get attached, it’s not you, it’s me.”
So here I sit, at the ocean’s edge, watching families pack baskets and fold beach towels by the corners. How odd I must seem: my slacks, my sunglasses, my book.
I am the leper longing for colony. I am the leper priests whisper at through walls. Is this what disappearing is? Watching those I love turn inward, turn away, heads lowered and eyes cast down? Have I become memory? I’m here! I want to scream, shaking shoulders, spitting on shoes. But I vanish. Miserably, in an ugly way - first my skin, then my nerves - my limbs, my toes, and my eyes.
I root my foot in the sand, I inurn my toes in a sandy crypt.
So here I sit: Franz Wright, me, and the California light: burning itself from the edges, in.
2 comments:
What I'm left with after reading this post is that it's a very good thing you will be leaving southern California where the sun bleaches existence. Get thee to some mist and fog where you don't have to squint to see yourself.
such a beautiful way to say it, Lydia. I am counting the days.
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