To them; to me.

The coastlines, the ridge lines, the trails—it was always you I wanted to share them with. I wanted to reach out somehow, and tell you. The fear and the angst at what we thought we needed, I loved holding with you. The hospital beds and the classes, the late night failures of ice cream and little boxes of maybe meat, the lazy mornings and the city stumblings, our dirty bathroom and the crowded diner—oh, the crowded diner—my love is there anything we love more than coffee in the crowded diner?

Here is something from a tidbit I wrote before. It seems I can’t keep from making the driving force of every protagonist you. But that’s no wonder.

Where, some place back in time, my kid brother led his band bravely into the fray. Into dark lands with trees the size of skyscrapers, and boar who wouldn’t bother themselves with a shotgun, let alone a man. And my kid brother lost some friends in those wild lands, searching for me no less, and for that I’m sorry. Which I’ll tell him when time comes back around, and we are boys again, standing under the giant sequoias, on some richer man’s land, where we run and laugh as quietly as we can. We are bandits, locked in joy at the height of our crime, running like wild horses, our necks expanding at the cold air, the silent cathedral ours alone. And we’ll stop running, and look up, and all around us the old trees will be busy growing, speaking their own language, and two boy brothers will witness the heavens. Landowners be damned.

And we won’t whisper a word about it.

But now, I am sitting inside a diner. Outside, recreational vehicle space ships try to park in the lines. My coffee is strong and the stars are bright. Back on Earth, it always seemed that, if you could just shoot off from earth in a rocket ship, the stars would seem within reach, but turns out they’re just as far away up here. I remember my wife. She was always my wife, and is, and will be. I remember her smiling at me from rainy tables on Earth. I remember sharing a bathroom with her. I can pick her smile from a billion stars. 

It’s easy.

A man snaps me from my memories. He throws a thumb over his shoulder. Isn’t that your brother, he says, and we look out the window, over the hodgepodge of parking R.V.S.S.’S, across a galaxy or two, and under an aggravated asteroid belt, we see him.

He’s brave. He leads his men into an ambush. Fur-wearing barbarians attack from the woodworks. He swings a sword, He pushes forward. Caydran is there, by his side. They look each other in the eye. Caydran nods. My kid brother Keene takes strength in that, and pushes onward.

I nearly spill my coffee. I’m proud. The man who jostled me raises his eyebrows. I take from it that he too, is impressed. I’m so happy my kid brother has found so mighty a friend in Caydran.

“Now if you’ll excuse me,” I say.

I turn back to the counter; I jump into the stars.

And there she is.

Smiling from her side of a rainy Earth table.

And to heaven, I return.

We get to live together with our two little boys and the dogs I threw into your life. We get to eat together some mornings and most nights we get to hide our plates from the greedy little son. We get to wake up and take turns stumbling to the cribs. We get to walk together in the evenings and see what this planet has to offer in the sunset department. I get to hear you laugh. I get to watch our little sons smile every time you walk in the room. I get to hear you grow frustrated with them. I always smile. I hide it from you but I always smile and I always love it because, if you look, in another five minutes, you make those boys smile and you’re everything. To them; to me.

There’s a look in your eye when you’re frustrated. Sometimes it’s there when you’re walking and I know you’re deep in thought. You’ll chew on your thumb nail and ask me a question as though we’re two generals surveying the end-all decision of some important war. And maybe we are.

To them; to me.

On the Road Again

The shifter sticks coming out of second, the chassis groans in the turns, and the crumbling wheel fits in with the countryside. Everywhere outcrops of disheveling rock spot the green hillsides. Livestock pull by the root, unconcerned. And on he drives, his feet pressuring each pedal as needs be, his eyes shirking the light as he pulls into the shade of the next hill.

He remembers her as he drives, leaning into the turns, then forgets awhile. The road straightens out and she returns. He wonders what they were like then. He wonders what it would’ve been to sit across from them in a crowded cafe, feeling the heat from across the room. He can see her downturned eyes, her lovely eyes. He sees himself, a brooding colt. He remembers how every word wore so heavy on them. And he remembers the pain and the long road of goodbye. He looks out at a pasture to his right. It seems peaceful to him. He considers pulling over, cutting the rubber of his tires, and staying forever.

A grin finds his lips. His foot pushes down on the accelerator. A cable under the hood behind him signals the old engine to let more air in.

He remembers it all as though he read it in a friendly, old book. She loves the world with all she has. She bleeds for it. He tries to follow. After all, he’s young. He thinks he’s invincible. Love is a chemical addiction. Summer nights burn fierce. 

The grin fades from his face as he remembers further. The sea shows itself to his right. The brilliant blues draw his eyes. The worn shifter fits in his fastball fingers like some ancient craftsman meant it to. He’s glad he remembers the good. 

In his memory cafe, he rises from his seat and leaves the young couple in their place by the window. His heart still has mending to do. He’s gentle with the shifter as he pulls back out of second. The road winds ahead. He smells the air blowing in from the sea, and sets his jaw in a proud place. His resilience and his jaw line are all he has left. He doesn’t care if his eyes are soft now or his heart is quick to run. 

He looks out over the steering wheel at the road ahead.

Two hundred years prior a ship enters the channel. There is no bridge, no pillars. There is only a wide river cutting through cliffs of green. Russian fur traders piss off the bow. They laugh to one another at the steam rising and the streams they leave. A swede watches from his place on the starboard rail. He’s in awe of the new world. What great things we’ll accomplish here, he thinks, what a land this will be. If only he could see the concrete pillars two hundred years later. If only we could say to him, “yes those are cars crossing that channel in seconds.” And he would ask where are they going and why, and we’d say, “to buy trinkets and over-priced coffee of course.” And he might shake at the future and the ease of life. 

“And the winters?” he’d ask. 
“Not so bad,” we’d say. 

And he’d grin in a way only those of the North can and we’d see hope in it, so we’d add, “It’s actually pretty tolerable. We’re figuring it all out. Would you like an Americano?” 

“amare…” he’d trail off and smile.

And we’d sip the bean water and discuss the many technological advances humans have made in all the years since he’s been around, and he’ll revel in our brilliance.

“So—no more poor?”

To which we’d stutter and fall silent.

“Um, still a lot of poor folks out there.”
“But surely no more hungry children?”

To which we’d swallow a lump.

“Plenty, we’re afraid.”
“Hmmm.” He’d say, and we’d be ashamed to see that happy northern smile fade back into the past. 

But we would have no more words. Would we tell him of the nuclear bombs or the wars that would make his tremble?

After a time, the Swede would sigh and we would prepare for his words. He’d sip his americano, looking down at the funny little cup.

“I was poor when I walked the world.” He would say. Then he’d set down his cup and rise from his chair.
“What now?”

And Neither him, nor you, nor I would see the wave coming.

She smiled like a criminal from her side of the table. Her skin was browned from the summer sun and shone from her time in the sea. Her smile came in flashes of brilliance. It was always so. Her grin and then her eyes. One to draw you in and one to cut you.

People coming into town to see what all the fuss was about filtered in through the door. They commented on the muffins and the taste of the local coffee. But he only loved her in the corner. And she held him there, dangling that smile and the soft places along her neck. The straps of her dress hung loosely about her shoulders. He followed the traces of her lines, eyed the faint shadowing along her shoulders.

From across the cafe, two men with white hair watched.

“Hmm.”
“Like a fly in a spider’s web.”
“Let him.”
“Oh, I won’t speak up.”

The old man grabbed his coffee from the bar and smiled at the barista through the steam. 

“Good.” He said.
“But it is clear, he’s caught.”

The old man grinned without teeth.

“Clearly.”

The young man in the corner whispered something to the beautiful girl and she smiled again. She rose without smoothing out her dress. She extended a hand and her eyes followed. The young man sat, floored.

One of the white haired men whistled low.

The young man took her hand. The beautiful girl flowed by, and out on to the street. She grew more beautiful in the sunlight. Heads turned as the young man followed.

The old man who had grinned sipped his coffee.

“To be caught again.”

And his old mind drifted upwards with the steam from the espresso machine. It drifted up higher and faded into an older time, when he took a hand of a beautiful girl and still loved the beaches and the sun. The old man grinned without teeth as he reminisced about his legs when he was young and the way the surf felt as it crashed over his shoulders. And he saw his girl, laughing in the summer sun. Her skin was brown too.

The phone rang.

“Are you sure about this?” she asked.

He grinned.

“Don’t answer it.”
“That’s the third voicemail today.”
“To hell with ‘em.”
“They’ll fire you by Monday.”

The thought excited him. It filled him with dread, and the same feeling of morbid hate flooded his gut. It was the feeling of standing at the feet of a monster without so much as a toothpick to defend yourself.

“Let’s go,” he said, but his smile was gone.

It was the little boy’s first day ever at the beach and he never saw the ocean. The ocean was too far off and there was too much sand to eat and feel.

The river that ran alongside the beach was green and deep. A seal’s wide head protruded from the surface, its black eyes blinking at them from the green.

They were talking about anything but work. She knew he was worried even though he smiled and pointed at the birds. But at the sight of the seal, he said, “let’s not worry anymore,” as though they had been talking about it all along. 

He snatched the little boy up and threw him over his shoulders. The little boy’s head bounced as they made their way to the water.

“You see it?” he asked.

He pointed out over the river. The waves were still too far to see. The little boy squinted at the strange thing bobbing in the water. The seal blew mist from its nostrils. They could see droplets dripping from his whiskers. The little boy watched quietly. The black eyes blinked back at him.

“You see?” he whispered.

The little boy shook his arm. The seal blew more mist from its nostrils. He held the boy close and watched his eyes. The little boy smiled and he knew they’d be alright.

Almost A Year

His eyes snapped open at the first sight of morning. Pinkish hues streaked across the sky as he said goodbye, kissed her softly. It tore at his chest to leave, but he could not deny the rumbling in his gut. He packed light, focused more on the paper he’d bring, the pen he’d wield. He held the plastic to his eye. The ink was half-past low. His eye brow scurried a bit. One more pen, a bit of blue ought to fix that. While frequent fliers and exhausted families fresh on vacation sought to sleep through the wee hours of morning, he requested “Coffee” and set about his scribblings. They would go nowhere. Be used for nothing. They were simply creation by a mind alight at possibility. Twice the stewardess passed by. She smiled deviously. His heart skipped each time. She was from someplace in the deep south. Her skin was a warm chocolate. She was far too beautiful. He was in love instantaneously; he would never utter a word to her. A nod would be grand achievement. She passed by him again, her hips shifting down the center aisle. He smiled into his coffee cup. What a world to produce such creatures. He sipped the coffee that was good because it was hot and returned to his little notebook. A world poured from him, enthralled him, all while the passengers beside him and behind him and the ones just in front slept and snored and got ready for the next phase of their day. He loved these flights. He always worked well on them, and the words never found their way to anything of value. He loved that too. Something about scribbling in the hours when most sleep made it secret, made his mission that of a spy or some political rebel, a refugee of time, one forced to wear a pale face in the day, waiting always for the night, for the small of morning, the lonely early flight.

Ice plant bent under their bare feet. The ice chest hovered between them, swaying with their stride. They moved in unison, one practiced for a lifetime, maybe more. Then came the crest of the dune.  The Pacific, bright blue in the ripping winds, starch white where she broke, stretched out before them. It was there, beyond the brink, at that first sighting,that it struck. It always had. Their children stretched out behind them in a straggling progression, their wives brought up the rear, every hand towing supplies for the day ahead. But it was they who stopped, who the sea struck. They didn’t understand the feeling; they never spoke of it to one another.

            The families broke camp some ways down the shore. Two open-air day tents, two tables, the massive ice chest, bags of food, and Frisbees, balls. As soon as camp was set, the wives brought out the spreads of food, the men opened four bottles of beer, and the children ran for the sea.

            The Frisbee flew flat, cutting through the wind. The younger spun as he caught it, fired it back off into the breezes. The older caught it. Snapped his wrist. Away it went, low and fast to the sand. It felt good to him, to stretch his muscles, to move, to cut, his feet gripping in the sand. It felt good to breath the sea air. The Frisbee was coming back now, black plastic arcing high, and his eyes followed it, his arm ready to jut out. But something tore down his spine then, a cold wash. The Sun flared and everything was light. The older bent over and shielded his eyes.  He took a deep breath in, then out. The sound of the disc hitting the sand made him open his eyes. The older scowled. The disc was different. It was no longer plastic, no longer solid. What rested before him was open in the middle, a doughnut. It had no ridge along the outer edge, this disc was thin, flat across the whole way through. And, on top of it all, the disc was copper. The older picked it up from the sand and examined it. He turned around and started.

            There were men. Hundreds of them. They wore armor that shone in the light of the afternoon. Old-timey leather sandals. And they wore swords, short swords that hung from their belts. The older watched them mill about, cutting wood, tending fires.

            “Come on then,” a voice yelled.

            He looked up. He knew that voice.

            It was the younger, or someone so the like he couldn’t help but stare. The young man’s hair was long. Braids of different lengths tossed in the ocean breeze. He was the same height, maybe an inch or two wider in the shoulders. His teeth were dulled and different, yellowed, and yet, he recognized the smile; would have recognized it anywhere. It was his brother. The same armor that the other men wore stretched across his chest. And, at his side, a leather scabbard swaddled a short sword.

            The young man motioned for him to get on with it. He looked down at the discus in his hand. It was heavier than a Frisbee. The hammered metal was cool to the touch. The older turned it in his hand, enjoying the glint of sunlight that played of its surfaces. Suddenly, just as suddenly as the sun flare and the changing of the times, he understood it. More than that, he knew it: knew the weight, the feeling of it in his hand. He kept it flat, turned his body from the hips, churning the sand under his foot as he turned, flicked his wrist, and released. The discus flew true.

            The young man down the beach smiled. The older recognized it. It was the same arrogant smirk he’d known his whole life. But now things were blurring. Which life? They threw back and forth, laughing, trying different tricks: spinning, under the leg, catching behind the back. The camp behind them grew still, the murmurs of the men sitting about the fires echoed out towards the waves. Spots of laughter ran up the cliff sides, trickling back down as the sky turned a myriad of shades of red and pink. The young man jogged up the beach. His smile was still wide.

            “Let’s sit,” he said.

            The older couldn’t keep a hand on whether the language they were speaking was English. He understood the words. They flowed freely from his mouth. Yet, it wasn’t. The sounds were strange.

            “Ahhh,” the younger sighed. They sat on a crop of beach, an edge of dry sand, before the shore plummeted towards the sea, where waves hissed ever upward.

            “This is not so bad a place to die.”

            He said it plainly without irony. No hint of melodrama. Instead, there was the joy of life. There was sorrow, yes, but it was sorrow at seeing the world go. It was, the older thought, the most beautiful and warm of sorrows that exist in the universe. And, without thinking anything of it, looking out over the sea, the older replied, “As fine as any.” They were his words and they weren’t—as though this were a play, as though it had been played out. But this was happening; this was now. The older smelled the sweat on his skin and his brothers, smelled the salt of the sea and the cooking fires behind them. He felt the callus on his feet, the worn arch between his thumb and forefinger on his sword hand, his left hand—the same hand he threw Frisbees on the beach with his family and their food and their ice chest.

            They watched the Sun set in silence, until the light from the fires was only matched by the moon. The younger grew solemn then. The joy he had worn in the sunlight was gone.

            “We should try to sleep.” He said.

            The older rested his head in the sand beside one of the fires. An old man was speaking, whispering, singing a story. It weaved in and out of the flames. It soared before the moon, hid amongst the clouds. It was a story of old things. The older drifted off before the end.

            He awoke to drums. The thumping quickened his heart. All over camp, men were running about, calling out orders in that peculiar tongue. The younger came out of the chaos, striding evenly, a spear in each hand.

            “Here,” he said.

            He tossed the spear casually and the older caught it by the wooden shaft.

            “It’s time.” He put on a somber smile.

            They joined the ranks setting up on the sands. They shouldered their way to the front. It was still dark, but the sunrise was creeping through. The older looked out to sea. Shadows dotted the dark blue waters. He had to check his eyes. He rubbed them with his free hand and looked again. Hundreds, maybe a thousand. He cursed to himself.

            The younger smiled at that.

            “So many,” he nodded.

            The older looked over. The thin metal discus hung from the younger’s belt, just behind his sword.

            “What’s that for?”

            The younger smiled.

            “They’ll never know what hit them.”

            And the older smiled for it.

But as the ships crawled closer to shore, he wanted to run, wanted to pull his brother by the arm, somewhere else, some place safe. His legs would not listen. His hand wouldn’t even drop the spear.

            It was an hour before the sun rose into view. They could see the ships now. The sea churned white at their bows. The shapes of men watching from the decks made the older clench his jaw. The enemy was no longer abstract. There he was. And he was coming.

            Yells arose along the lines. They held position at the height of the beach, the crest of the hill. The invaders would have to charge uphill, have to run with armor and shield and sword up the crumbling sand, the weight of the sea still heavy on their clothes. Then they would charge.

            The world filled with sound. Ships landed up and down the lines. Men with foreign tongues screamed out in fury. The old man who spun stories fell face first in the sand, an arrow protruding from his belly. The older felt hatred as he felt love. He looked over to his brother, whose jaw was set, whose arm was loose, yet firm, just as their father had taught them. The younger looked back at him. The eyes were the same, the older thought. The eyes, the stance. The younger nodded. The line cried out. They charged. The world rolled deep. It shook the older. The crash of men, the hiss of waves. Nothing was thought. All happened as nature intended, as thoughtless and unintentional as a comet striking a planet. All shook. Red hot blood burned and spewed and spoke measures.

            The older opened his eyes. A Frisbee lay in the sand before him. Black plastic. A headache came and went. It staggered him. The younger stood down the beach calling to him. The older met his eyes and the younger stopped calling. They stared at one another for some time, then out to the sea. That feeling was back.

He hoisted his bag to his shoulder, and boarded the single-engine plane. His legs cramped and turbulence shook the cluttered cabin. They flew over farmsteads and barbwire borders. He exited—stepped down the ramp, stretched his legs. Smoked a cigarette. The roar of jet engines met his early morning. They sailed over white cloud breaks in the late morning, sprinkling his view with famous metropolitan sightings beneath. Another airport, another cigarette. His legs hungered for more, they wanted to walk, to stretch, to be free, but he boarded another plane, and another, for two days. He was coming for her. The last he heard she owned a shop on the western side of this new country. In her letters, she wrote that it was hard but she felt it fair and her shop was surviving. She didn’t explicitly mention it in the letters or their calls but he could see, he could hear something was bothering her. Shades of shame washed over her eyes. He didn’t ask what was wrong. He knew she was too strong to tell him. But he was here now, drinking his coffee in the bright light beside clean streets and rich sullen citizens. His eyes watched more than they normally did. He was a fish out of water, an immigrant hiding in plain sight. There were stories back home, tidings of angry men and whispers of wall-building. There were videos of SUV’s and women crying. It didn’t matter. He had to find her, had to discover what drew that shade over her eyes and end it. A sick feeling clubbed him in the stomach. What if? He asked himself, but stopped short of even thinking it. His hand shook as he reached for his glass of water so he bit his cheek, bathed himself in resolve and went for his coffee instead. The clean glass doors reminded him of dreams he once held for France. But these were sturdy against the cold blowing wind outside, heavy against his arm, and he was sure deep down somehow that Parisian doors were lighter and better made. He lit a cigarette and reveled in his newfound freedom to walk. Electricity hummed inside him. The buzz kept him warm. He was a long way from home. The address from the letter was three blocks, two. A red light confined him to the corner. His heel bounced on the asphalt. A few cars hurried by on their day to day. A box-truck wearing graffiti humped up and over the hill. Crosswalk clear. He shuffled on, halfway across before he settled back into a walk. Left at the corner, down the way. His eyes searched the numbers, watching the natural progression leading to her, his prize, everything. He stopped. A handmade sign hung above the sidewalk. The numbers he read matched the letter. He turned, looking through the glass walls where shelves of color lined the inside and there, at the counter, a girl worked with her head down.

The hallway echoed in activity, even in the dead of night. A steady beeping. Some tired mother murmuring to some tired beau shuffling behind her. The scandalous murmurs of otherwise professional nurses crept up and spread from wall to wall, reaching down to his ears at the brink of his door. The hall excited him. It had been two days. Two days in a room with no fresh air. The open-air courtyard was twenty feet from his door, twenty feet from where his feet now planted and his ears listened. But he couldn’t bring himself to go. Even his mission seemed preposterous. To leave? To step away from what was unfolding in the room to his back. He exhaled. He exhaled again, slower this time. Fluorescent lights reverberated off the floor as though the floor itself was lit from the ground up. His slide-on sandals would flap against the floor, maybe disturb some sleeping mother, maybe annoy one of the nurses, but still he had a mission—she had asked him. She needed this. So he would do it. He would complete this task as quickly, and as efficiently as he could, and make it back to the room. The room, where two little stars of new slept and grunted and asked for her. He took his first step. The smack of his sandal made him cringe but he was going now, gaining speed. He nodded to a sleepy Indian woman in a wheelchair, to the sleepier man behind her. They offered smiles back. He felt justified. The hallway was theirs, for them, for whatever they needed. And they needed coffee. The machine was unknown to him, an alien contraption that used alien coffee but who explained itself thoroughly through a series of small LED-lit screens. Two cups, lift them, smack back down the long bright hallway. Babies crying. Greenhorn parents shushing. His door. The door to the outside, one he would’ve longed for a day prior. He didn’t even look. He needed back in his room. He needed to check on her, make sure she was comfortable. And he needed to see them, the two young stars, the centers of a new universe, black holes that seemed to suck in the room around them, to take his eyes from familiar faces and forget them. He stepped inside. They were asleep. She took the coffee and his eyes went back to where they had to go: searching the stars—searching over and over again, in awe to be so close.

Mendocino

The serious one shone blue. The muscular goof wore his red. The sole of my boot tapped the wooden decking in time with bass string thumpings left by my thumb. Their eyes fell, heavy—the goof going so far as to roll on his side and dream. The serious one never napped so deeply. He always kept one eye on me, always one floppy ear reaching out. I worked through the old songs, singing to those on the winds, for those are the only folk my music struck anymore. The last chord faded. I came back. That floppy ear twitched and his eyes bore me again. I hadn’t moved. I wondered how he knew that I needed to leave. Maybe it was the sound of my breath falling from my chest in some certain way. He awoke and rose as I did.  The goof clambered up after us, his heavy bones still sleeping. We walked together under the pines that hung over the ocean, they always a little ahead, me always a little behind. We cut back towards the canyon. An ambulance screamed by on the bridge forty feet over our heads, its sirens blaring down the concrete supports, ringing out towards the sea. They thought it was a ghost, some ancestor calling out to them. They howled high until they found their voices. The serious one howled deeper then; he held it until he was sure he was the last to say goodbye, and then he listened. The forest was silent. The highway above us must have been empty. I watched as they listened with their eyes on nothing, their ears flicking about for change. The serious one licked his chops and trotted on his merry way. It wasn’t long before trickles of rushing water fell on our ears and the goof tore off, rounding the corner and disappearing out of sight. We found him shoulder-deep, ducking his head. He stared up at me like a child mid-heist in a cookie jar, his tongue lolling off to one side. I clicked my tongue twice and off they went, charging ahead of me deeper into the valley, the redwoods growing taller with every passing mile. They didn’t seem to notice, but maybe they did. Who am I to say.

He wanted to say goodbye. He wasn’t there yet, wasn’t to the point where it was fine to sit and drink with them. Something in his heart scolded him for sitting. You’re a failure, it said, and a fool, and nothing in your life bears evidence of your right to sit amongst them. I know, he said back, but it’s nice for a while. He marveled at the diamonds of light in the blowing canopy, the warm tones at the death of day. Someday, when he died—maybe in the place they all spoke of—he could smile and laugh with the virility he never could here, with the honesty he could never muster. In the back of his mind he heard them: There were mountains calling, cold nights beckoning, stories to live and strangers to meet. He was not he, not yet. He was a sad impostor, a poor diddling child. He figured they saw it too. It was the way he sat, the way he wore his clothes, never quite comfortable, his weight constantly shifting from one hip to the other. He hadn’t fought enough, hadn’t torn his destiny from the stars. He saw them, was left dumbstruck in the light of their cold fire—one day, he knew, they’d be old friends. But for now, he was some sloppy fraud who played nice. His edge was blunted, his mind assuming, his heart unfinished. Soon, he said, soon I’ll go. I’ll go far off into the desert; into foreign cities. I’ll mouth exotic words, trade striking eyes with complex women, and share bread with men who see me as I’m supposed to be: far from home. And, as long as I keep to that, as long as I stay away, they’ll be proud and I’ll stride naturally and my eyes will shine again. Soon, he whispered, but time was running out. 

Songbirds sang in the wild garden below. Vultures rode the currents above. Plumes of white amongst the blue told her the whales were still traveling. She wished for them above all other animals. “Godspeed,” she said, warming her nose in the rising steam of her coffee mug. He was gone now, scattered in these very winds, or some sea wind like them, just off the point there. She remembered that she wept. And she remembered that she knelt there for a very long time. The Sun drifted from view and the sea wore the last of its light. A noise drove her eyes from the pine-needled ground. Rushes of air, whale plumes, twenty or thirty—she couldn’t count them all—rose at the base of the cliffs. She remembers the vapor wetting her cheeks, but she tells herself it was only her tears. She remembers the cries of the whales, as though they mourned with her, but no, she thinks again, just another figment of her imagination. But that feeling was true: that feeling she had as she wept on her knees, her world tossed to the winds, the sun low and the waters on fire—that feeling the whales gave her—as though a congregate of the most holy souls prayed with her in language unknown. We are with you, they said, and he is with us. I could not construct that, she thought. And she smiles over her coffee to see them swim on. And she knows, in the pit of her gut, that they are the heart of the world as it is meant to be. And she prays for them. 

They say you will be here any day now. My shoes churn the gravel but I do not move; it’s the world turning beneath me. My nights are spent in dreaming frenzies, the sheets torn from my side of the bed. At least I sleep. Your mother does not fare better. You guys keep her up all hours of the night, pushing and punching and kicking her insides. I wake up hearing my heart drum-rolling against my sternum, while she’s in the bathroom for the fortieth time tonight. We say we’re ready. We say we’re not. But you’re on your way, I can feel it. I hope you two have some of this figured out. I can tell you in all confidence that nothing went according to plan. I was going to be accomplished, rich even, and skinnier to boot. There was supposed to be one of you, for one thing. I guess that’s the one thing that did go to plan. I wanted you. I knew it. I knew that despite the logistics and anxieties, I wanted you with every cell in my body. It was the same way when I decided I wanted to marry your mother. And now with the two of you coming, I’m suspicious of how lucky I am. It feels predestined. The two of you changing our world. And the fear evaporates, gone in an instant, whenever I picture the two of you here, finally, with us. Yesterday, the technician measured your belly, Benji, and in that moment I imagined the two of you squirming around on our bed. I thought of what it would be to pick each of you up, to kiss your bellies. It’s hard to describe. It feels warm. It feels purposeful. They say you will be here any day now, and I am the most eager one in the world to meet you both. I don’t know what we’re going to tell the dogs. You’ll have to win them over.

Purple Film

He remembered first that the car was dark, a blue or black. Sometimes his mind fancied a purple, but he was old now, a legitimate big kid so he knew that purple cars were nonsense. More than that, he knew his father couldn’t have been the type of man to buy, let alone drive—a purple car. He remembered next the crunch of the tires of leaving and the warmth of the exhaust as he chased after. He remembered next the lazy light of the afternoon falling down through the oak over the deck and his wonderings as to what was taking Papa so long. He remembered next that he forgot. Two of his toys were warring and he had to oversee them. Time got away from him then, soon Mommy lifted him by his arms for dinner. He couldn’t remember now what they ate, only that the phone rang and Mommy stopped eating. There was the familiar crunch outside and down from his chair and beat Mommy to the door, his bare feet slapping on the cool kitchen floor.

            “Put on your jacket.”
            She helped him get his arms though the holes that seemed to hide behind his back whenever he looked away. She tied his shoes, saying they didn’t have time for him to try tonight. Grandpa waited in the kitchen and they spoke quietly in the front seats while he watched street lights streak by the car window.

            He didn’t know where they were, only that the building was ugly to him—big and square and grey. Thousands of cars were parked everywhere. Grandpa held his hand while Mommy ran ahead. The floors smelled funny and the light was strange. Grandpa told him he couldn’t sit on the floors.
He and Grandpa found Mommy with Papa. She picked him up and sat him on the bed.
             “Hi buddy,” Papa said.
His papa’s eyes were purple and a funny bit of plastic sat over his nose.
             “Papa, why are you wearing that mask?"
             “His papa smiled, “Why, I thought you’d like it.”
          He remembered how strange he considered that, and that his face must’ve turned sour, because Papa laughed then, deep and booming. It shook through the bed and let him know that everything would be alright. 

Mornings were cold. Afternoons smelly. Weekends were clogged with tourists.

            Long days meant a sore back. The worst was the noise. Always, his ears seemed to ring. It set a deep worry in the back of his mind. But then the worker man smiled. He toiled on. Because the worker man held a secret. Back up the dock, up the hills of pretty-pretty townhouses and skipped stop-signs there lie a little life worth living.
            Up the hill, in those trees that shaded the peninsula, sat a cottage. A coffee maker. Two babies. A woman. And when those babies cooed, the worker man’s world was in the Sun. When she filled his coffee mug, he bore the energy needed for another day. And when she smiled at him, or scorned him, or glared in his general direction, he could only laugh at his good fortune.

            So the worker man worked on. Worked away the good years of his life without regret. He ate his meals quietly, thanking whoever out there saw fit to let him live so. And he kissed the woman every morning and annoyed her at night and his babies grew up wrestling with dogs in the yard, and splashing in the cold sea water.

            And the years passed by at a glance, so that the man looked out to the sea every day and grinned. He didn’t mind the factory bell ringing in his ears. Everything has its price.

Told us no. Warmed up to it.

But we were already gone, floating on the updraft.

            That a hand rested upon my neck could lift the world from my shoulders. 
            That a mischievous grin could make a life.
            That a mattress on a floor could cradle the universe. 
            That I might love you.
            That an omelet, that a biscuit, that any breakfast could become pious.

That wet shoes could be forgotten.
            That a city would watch two. 
            That two could float amongst skyscrapers.
            That a door-jam could sneak us in.
            That the trees could sing to us.
            That I might love you.

That I might just, please, keep floating on this updraft awhile,

            Up amongst the clouds
            Out through Space
            Wave to Venus
            And settle never.

There’s a place I call Heaven.

It’s fountains and purple plants and joy that sends your legs pumping wild and your throat trembling. You sing and cry out and no one can tell the difference.  There’s bass strings thumping and bows drawing sound and cool water runs everywhere. It’s night and there are clouds and there are stars. Whales are close friends and close friends aren’t far, and everything bad that ever happened to anybody makes sense. And the poor are there, and the dogs that were never loved are there, and the true in life are sitting by their own fountains with stern backs and bright smiles—knowing smiles. And you can run through alone and your knees never hurt. And the rain rushes down you, making you laugh, and there’s a party over the hill, and lovers on the hill on the way, and a warm southern wind rustles the trees causing you to stop and marvel. Eyes find yours in lost camaraderie. Lost love is found in understanding smile. Those you lost nod to you, assure you the pain of loss is behind, and on you run. On you cry out, the music of the world wailing with. And your dogs run with, and love runs with, and a new pain finds you. It’s the pain of the slave, of the butchered, the burned, of the raped. It washes over you with the rain and it’s all so soul-crushingly beautiful, because they are still beautiful, saved now as they are. And you stop. You weep. You understand the trees. You smile at the water running. It’s only a moment.

Last Fall

Huddled over, the night sky burned cold above him. Stars sat crisp. His hands, well-worn and glowing, drank in the warmth of crackling red flame. The flames stayed low, as though they were conscious of his loneliness, and the loneliness of the night. His back was stone—frozen from the harsh truth of a planet-side dark and away from the comfort of the Sun. He did not grumble over his state. He did not speak anymore. Instead, he remembered. He remembered long-gone seasons. He remembered the color yellow and the years he knew. Only the flames made a sound. Even the running stars were silent. They passed at steady pace, cutting the sky in two without a thought—without consideration that someone might be watching. Why should they care? He stoked the little bit of wood he had left. The flames were dying down. It would come soon: the pain. It didn’t matter to him. There had been nights past when the cries of the others would carry on and on and on. But now, it was quiet. Beyond the glow, the world stretched out in waves. Sand and sky. Salt and sea. The lines melded and stretched and reformed; the air burned in his nostrils; sand assaulted his eyes, but he did not care. He was thinking of yellow. He was sitting across from her, and she was laughing. They passed their beer back and forth. They talked about their future and smelled her cigar’s smoke while they committed the act of love in the subtlest of ways: they were kind to one another. They coexisted, their hearts weaving together in the warm air of a summer afternoon. A breeze carried over. The honey locusts danced in a thousand shimmering leaves. He was far from the sand now, far from the aching cold—yes—he was across from her. She blinked, and looked up at him, and the feeling was there—oh, it had been so long. So long, he thought, since he’d had a reason but there she was, a memory, a warm wind. He opened his eyes. The flames were gone. Only a pulsing heap of red coals remained. He lay with his face in the sand, arms crossed, smiling—smiling, for she was there. She was right there, and birds were still calling, and leaves were still singing, and her eyes were still open and they could see him and, for that, he existed again. And he fell asleep there, in that otherworldly cold—alone, frozen, silent. He did not ramble on to the night as some loony lonesome would. He had her. So, he had hope. And the night took him at his finest, with she being his last sight, a smile across his lips.

Sheets of rain danced over the tall street-side windows. A couple ran by clinging to their disguises: they clung to their collars and pulled their hats down as though they were praying, as though it might save them from the coming weather. After them, no one passed the coffee shop. The city turned in and fell to darkness. The lights of the coffee house became an island—no, a ship—adrift in the storm. Baristas hid in the back from their work and divulged the travesties of their lives. It was Shakespeare in a kitchen. A window table cradled a man dressed in a form-fitting three-piece suit. The man’s watch alone could cover three years’ worth of his twenty-ounce mochas. The shine of his loafers suggested he was an important man and yet, he spent his night scrolling through a variety of dating apps. Money would never afford him companionship—not really. Behind him, another lonely soul slept in the corner, head down, wrinkled fingers clenched to a filthy quilt. The quilt hid the man’s face, but not his stench. It would not be long until the man in the shiny loafers and the impeccable suit would turn on him, would complain to the baristas, who would whine in turn, at the shameful stopping of their tales, and kick the old bum out into the rain, where the old man would lumber into the storm, a dinghy in the great swells, searching for some sanctuary at which to dock. It might be a concrete overhang—cold but dry. And it might not be. Oblivious to them all, sat a girl with a book. Her latte was untouched. It was cold, an hour old. The wonder in her eyes would have saved them all, had they looked. In her eyes was everything humanity aspired to be, everything that made this world good, and nature beautiful. Had they looked, the baristas might’ve given the old man a coffee and respite from the storm. Had he looked, the man in his suit might have spent less time shining his shoes and more time laughing. Had he looked, the old man might have tried again. But they didn’t.

Intermission:

If this is all that I write on this Monday night,
That is fine.
No scenes needed, no beating of the brain, 
I’m tired after all.

But so were they.

Benji pitted the cold air and the noise and the struggle against his other option—Oh, I could give up, he thought, give up and stay here in the warm. Say that I’m sick forever and never go back to that place where they force us to sit still and the mean women yells. Maybe I could run away, sleep with the buffalo—become one (Benji’s father had assured him that Benji could indeed do this if he wanted) so I don’t get cold in the winter—ah yes! I’d be short, it’s true—the shortest probably—but I’d be happy. I’m not happy there. Benji reached with his toes, thoroughly enjoying the weight of his covers. Ah god, I can’t! I just can’t do it! I won’t! I must go away. After all, each day here is the same, this battle royale in the morning darkness. The buffalo wouldn’t yell at me. I could eat and sleep and play whenever I wanted. I’d lay back late in the night, my thickly furred head resting on the grasses, my buffalo tongue lopped out on its side, and I’d grin at the stars and snort warm air out from my nostrils—A voice called from the other room. Oh. Mom. Benji thought. Would she come with me? She probably can’t turn into a buffalo since she’s been a woman so long. She doesn’t have the power, not like me. If she can’t do what I do, why, she’d never fit in! Benji’s heart fell silent at this. Would I get a new mother amongst the buffalo? Would I forget mom here? Benji curled his toes once more. He took a deep breath and sighed. The voice called again. Benji threw back his covers and went to her. One more day couldn’t hurt too bad, he thought.

A season had passed since he’d seen the trees and dry-grass field of the park. Maybe two had. He didn’t know; he couldn’t remember. In one of those fleeting moments where Jack snuck books to him so he could escape the signs and the speeches and the constant fear of the clubs across the way, he read a piece that dismissed beauty as something to be judged. It was said, in one masterful thought, the beauty was to be sensed—profoundly felt—that it was a natural phenomenon and was to be treated as such—and not some elementary pageant. Those words came to him now as he stepped amongst the dandelions. He was careful not to disturb their yellow pedals. Thunderheads rolled on above. Winds shook the tall cedars and oaks, branches waving, while little maples crouched in between.  He breathed deep. Sunlight broke through. Maybe it had been three seasons, he thought. He made to smoke but thought better of it—there was no need to soften the rain-fresh air. There was no need to change anything, here.

            Two rascals sullied the peace. They ran on all fours, heaving through the undergrowth, snapping dried limbs of past storm casualties, biting and growling at one another all the way. They made him smile. It had been too long. There was a time before the strike—before the committees, the police, the militias, and speeches—a time before the money—when the three had traveled under so many different trees in so many distant afternoons. A thought seared into his mind. Well, he thought, we were four then. A thunderhead’s wind blew his hair back, and he attributed the sudden darkening of the clouds to his imagination playing out before his eyes. Yes, we were four, he let slip, and we were happy. He clenched his eyes shut. He couldn’t afford to go that way—not now. Today was rare. Today was for the rascals, and he’d see that they keep it.

            He snapped from his dismal thoughts to find the older mutt careening back and forth with all four legs jabbing at the clouds above.

            “Get up!” he growled.

            The old dog leapt up, shaking off grass as he came, and yawned with a long, outstretched tongue and a satisfied old grin. He knew something.

            The dog’s white teeth and the mischievous eyes made the man laugh.

             “Ya old rascal,” he said. It made him happy that some things hadn’t changed. But then his nose curled as he noticed a brown smudge over the dog’s back.

            “Son of a bitch!” he barked, and the old dog ran off with his tongue loping out to the side of his mouth. “I hope you realize you’re getting a bath now.”

            The old dog fell back into rank at that, waddling behind his every step.

            “Oh,” he said, “playing the good dog won’t save you now.” He leaned down close and said, “Your fate is sealed.” And he got a very funny feeling at the pronunciation of those words.

            The old dog, however, declined to dignify the remark with so much as a nod.

            The two walked on, and he remembered a time once, way back it seemed, in the high country when it had been four of them and the world wasn’t a mess. The old dog was young then, nearly a pup, and had climbed into their tent covered in bear shit.

            He took a deep breath, and smiled to himself. The thunderheads above rolled purple. He whistled and the dogs followed. It was time to go. He’d been gone too long already.

            Yet there was the matter of a bath. He could not leave his old friend with a soiled coat in an empty house, so he set the spigot to warm, and climbed into the tub with the uneasy mutt.

            “Easy boy,” he whispered, “easy now.”

            He poured a cup of warm water over the dog’s back, over the smear. Muscles twitched under the fur. At the third cup, the dog heaved a heavy sigh, and accepted his fate, resting his head on his caretaker’s knee.
            Washing the dog made him remember times when he didn’t have to do this alone, and he wondered if the somber look in the dog’s eye suggested he wasn’t the only one.

            A breathless man worked his way up the stairs, ran down the hall, and knocked six times upon the door in rapid succession.

            “It’s happening. We need you in the square.”

            The voice sounded funny, carrying through the door. It sounded like a child speaking through a paper cup. He sighed, sitting there on the side of the tub. The young dog had fallen asleep on the floor, worn out from his time in the trees. The old dog wore a new towel and a new scent, courtesy of the day’s adventures. But his head was still there, his chin resting on the man’s knee. The old dog’s eyes watched the man’s turn to the door. It seemed he knew. The man rubbed the old dog’s ears a moment, everything in him screaming to stay, to remain, and to go back if he could—if only he could. But he could not. He knew that. So, he stood. He grabbed his coat from the counter and took two steps towards the door, where he halted. He looked back at the old dog, whose eyes watched him relentlessly.

            “Goodbye boy,” he whispered.
            He opened the door to find a disheveled young man out of breath.

            “I’m ready,” he said.

Wandering Thoughts

He couldn’t remember why he was here. He’d left the house of his own accord—he remembered that. Something in the sheets. There was flesh and a hand grabbing and—his teeth gritted. His shoulders raised and broadened. He lumbered on. Something, something, there must be something to do, somewhere to go—No. He was here. He was here, he could not breath, and he needed water. There would never be enough. No matter if all his dreams were realized and every beautiful woman in the world loved him—No. Even if he had her, again. There’d still be this thirst. He’d still be suffocating, no matter what.

He didn’t read the sign. Didn’t keep track of the trail, or which way he turned. He was deaf to the wind and blind to the leaves. He didn’t feel the long musket barrel of the mosquito bury into his neck. He didn’t feel some of the life leave him and carry to the insect. He could not breath. He needed water; where was she now? He knew. And then he forgot.

A cry broke his suffocation. A light breached his heavy eyelids. Little boys and little girls of every color splashed in green waters below. The cry came again, softer now. Water flashed in the sunlight. She that cried out loved the world. She was new to it, lost in it. She loved the mud at the river-bottom. It squashed between her toes and bubbled up over her feet. She loved the cool air that hovers at river-sides despite hot summer afternoons. It blew across her back and made the leaves rattle and dance. She loved it all, and she cried out for her love. And in all her love, she did not see the brooding animal atop the bridge. She did not know that she saved him.

Much of it was the same, and all of it was good. Every swollen fruit would redefine food for him. Every stand of hopeful eyes offered something exquisite, but he blew past all of them. There was something else to the stand on the end—some other element that made the fruit there glow. The selling-girl smiled at him with ancient eyes, though her skin was cream without a crease, some package unopened. She didn’t speak. She only motioned to the fruit on the table. As he glanced down, golden light arched into his eyes. He did not notice the rest of the market fade away. He didn’t see the clouds change shape and grow and elongate; he didn’t notice the sun transform. He picked up a peach, lofting it there. He looked back at the girl. She smiled politely, but just before her salesman’s grin he caught something else—was it a look of fear? No, he thought, it was a look of hunger. It had lingered there in her eyes just a second longer than she’d meant to, and he had caught it. Still—he paused the thought—lost again in the golden light. He was desperately thirsty, and only this peach—this one, alone—could satisfy his urge. He closed his eyes; his teeth tore at the skin. Golden juices flowed into his mouth, swarmed his gums. He’d never go home.

The old men that sat around the table now were not his people. His people were far away now. He’d fought with them, but those old men were still his people, and he loved them. They were the reason he could sit at this table now with his head held high and defend himself with no fear in his heart. The old men that sat around the table now ridiculed him. They shook their heads at his answers. “You better get ready, boy,” they said, “you better arm yourself, for you and your family, or they’re gonna git you.”

“Who is?” he asked.

“The criminals rushing into this country every night You gotta ready yourself so you’re the one on top.”

He laughed.

“Maybe I should.”

Shells fell and seared the dirt. The men that sat around the table had gotten up and were teaching him how to shoot. He found it all funny.

“Jesus, son you didn’t even hit the target.”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“I’m telling you boy you need to ready yourself. There’s a war coming.”

He handed over the pistol.

“Hasn’t found me yet.”

The old men sheathed their side-arms on their hips as they shook their heads. They didn’t know he didn’t care about winning. It wasn’t what he was looking for. He left them there, forgoing his weapon for a tree-frog. He knelt as it hopped across the creases in is hands. He smiled.

Behind him:

“Not much of a man there.”

“No sir-ee.”

Dogs slept between them. They found each other again in the morning. Her hand found his back and quelled his bad dreams. He sat up and pulled her toes. He kissed the dogs on their heads. She massaged his tired hands, kissed his eyelids. They rose slow. Dogs stretched; dogs grunted. Steamed water turned to coffee. No words were needed. None were said. He found her outside thinking, looking out over the world. Hills sunned themselves on the horizon. Little wetland trees shook themselves dry in the bright morning sun. There was time to read her face, to smell her skin; the air was still cool after all. He looked out and wondered what the morning looked like back home. He wondered if they’d see their people again. He knew that they could stay, or that they could go further—they could hide in tiny cabins under icy hills, could take shelter under quilts in Parisian studios—they could run forever.  They never had to see anyone ever again. He wrapped his arms around her. Another thought struck his mind like a drummer’s mallet. It pounded and ebbed. He pulled her closer and worried as steam rose from their coffees and dissipated. He knew the world could take whomever it wanted.

The Return

He pulled the handle and sea winds rushed into the lobby around them. She pulled her coat tight around her and he followed closely. Outside, she hung close on his arm; they made their way down the side street as one. Sirens rang far off. A horn blew at some insignificant left turn and a driver was hurried. On the corner of the left turn, a young black man sang in a pea coat. His stiff fingers found their way down the fret board and he kept a small fire, a soul’s fire, burning despite the winds blowing hard over the waters of the sound. He broke from her arm and dropped two dollars in the open case at the young musician’s feet before she urged him on. Fifty young men and women dressed to the hilt stood shivering in line for a club they might enter in the next hour. The couple passed close and smiled at the sight of so many faces. He watched her as they walked. She watched the tall buildings and the lights and she pondered on suites and a life wearing suits. He laughed and shrugged.

            “Whatever you’d like,” he said.

            “And you’ll be there too?”

            “I’ll come along.”

            They drank coffee huddled close and marveled at the city and her lights.

Cities brought on fear, so he clung to her. But she packed light. And she laughed with her chin back and her eyes on the stars.  Her laughter was bright; it filled whatever space it originated in. It could fill the sound, a concert hall, even a sea. She laughed, and entire coffee houses turned to see. Restaurateurs lost track of their singe to lean out of their kitchens—to see the source: the easygoing girl at the end table, the beauty with the bright smile. The cold wind stung her neck red, her wool collar flapping in the trade winds. She began to laugh. Her hair rushed over her face, other passengers fell to stares, the captain leaned back from his turning wheel. Everyone turned to see the stunning girl giving them music.

            He watched too. And he lost all fear.

            She held out her hand to him, “Come on."

            He took her hand. He smiled at the thought.

            She didn’t know, didn’t see them.

The concierge loved the show. His shifts were always the same, always different. They began at three in the dark morning. Sometimes freezing, sometimes cool. Always hot coffee, and he always offered a light pat on Nick’s shoulder. Nick looked wretched most of the time, but he only saw Nick at three in the dark mornings. Nick would stumble out of the big gold doors, back to his studio seven floors above park block. Quiet professionals would hustle past the front windows, remarkably put together—he always, always, marveled at the early-morning suits, the smooth shaves, the flowing blouses. In winter, they wore the finest coats he’d ever seen. Then the coffee stand would open. Usually Sarah, then on weekends Sarah and Tom and Sandra. They gave him whatever he wanted. He stuck to Americanos, and he tried to keep those to three. By seven, the lobby was alive. Some came for business. Casual conversations revolving around money. Others were tourists, resident hipsters, families with giddy children who refused to discriminate quiet mornings from rowdy nights.

Once, he watched a break-up: the young man wept. The girl pulled her hand back from his and rushed out. The concierge watched her through the window, shrugging some unseen weight from her shoulders, the wind tossing her hair. The young lover man sat hunched and broken. He’d lost his world.

The concierge brought him a coffee. He knew there was nothing more to do. It was a beautiful play, though.

He returned to his place at the counter and wondered at it all. He sipped his Americano, and muttered to himself all the conclusions he’d never say aloud to anyone else. He’d never remember them once he left.

He prided himself in his efficiency. All aspects of his living made sense. His clothes made sense, his job, even his reasons for not settling down with her—she, the brunette with the wit, the one who’d loved him, the one who’d watched him from across crowded dinner tables with that hopeful glint in her eye, the one who was perfect for him. Even his reason for living here, so far, so isolated from all he knew in his past.

Maybe it was that he loved this city, loved smoking pipes in alleyways and answering to no one. Loved there was no one to run into. Maybe it was that he was scared; that she scared him. Whatever it was, there was always one thing that he could not account for—one thing that never made sense but that was him—wholly, completely, the essence of him. It was imagination. It bled out whenever he wasn’t looking. It showed itself in the comfort with which he handled life. There was art in his lifestyle: Art in his gait as he switched alley for alley, as he crossed the street, art in the manner he conducted business, art in his awkward exchanges with the family men who served him his dinners from carts at the base of steel towers. He breathed it, and every now and again, it escaped him in quirky moments of brilliance that could’ve saved a hundred production houses had they been listening. But they hadn’t. Not that he cared. He walked on, happy and alone, stepping forward like some modern yeti—wondering the skyscraper wilderness he’d found himself in, easily surviving, never recognizing the draw to settle down in it, not like we do. He was, down to his core, a rambling man. How about that?