i have traversed this beach for what seems eons, yet time upon time,
what i seek to achieve always escapes me.
i seek peace for my tortured soul, in the sound of the crashing waves,
in the smell of the salt air, in the feel of the chill wind
that whips against my weathered face.
i walk now in an area close to, but not near, the water’s edge.
my eyes scan the distant horizon, searching an elusive peace of mind
in the sun’s reflection upon the blue-green surface of the ocean,
walking on sand that bares much witness to my habitual walks,
and those of others, as evidenced in the footprints that crater
nigh the entire surface of the sand.
a testimony of the pain of the world, perhaps?
for a while longer, my steady gait gains me silent ground,
the crashing waves and the seagulls and such that fly by
my only companions.
then, i hear them, moments before i see them,
a young couple deep in heated debate,
the battle waged a fierce one, words their tools and pain their weapons.
i slow my already slow pace and lethargically move along.
so far i am unnoticed and…
suddenly, the girl turns her head sharply,
a motion whose purpose is to throw her hair from her face.
unfortunately, the action has unwanted consequences,
it makes her aware of me and it makes me aware of her.
she is blessed with classic beauty,
large eyes, deeper in color than the darkest night,
they sit above a small nose and bow shaped mouth,
the lower lip slightly fuller than the upper,
sensual, soft, kissable.
about her oval face are thick strands of mahogany colored hair,
and though her shape is mostly hidden
beneath an overcoat and loose slacks, there is no denying
that beneath those clothes
shapely curves define her as woman and not girl.
her beauty is hauntingly familiar, she reminds me of my Heather,
not in likeness of feature, but in youth.
she, this woman not girl, is a seemingly radiant picture of life,
a life my Heather did not have the chance to live.
her youth, this woman not girl,
also reminds me of my advancing years,
of how old i have grown in the years since sweet wife’s death.
not that i need reminders.
i see my age as my hand moves my cane before me,
a third appendage which firms my limping stride,
a hand covered in wrinkled and spotted skin.
and too, i know the wind throws grayed hair,
mostly hidden beneath a black top hat, across my face.
i attend the woman not girl with an immovable gaze
as i drift inexorably closer,
drawn to her by the force of memory she evokes in me.
she attends me as well, and at his companion’s inattention
the young man jerkily throws up his hands,
joining in an intentional harmony
with the rise in pitch of his voice,
"Deana, are you even listening to me!"
the woman not girl flinches but does not take
her dark eyed gaze, which begins to show anger,
off my approaching form.
dear, sweet bliss, how she reminds me of Heather!
why?
why, on this day, did i have to come here?a rhetorical question, if ever there was one,
i already know the answer.
this is where i proposed to Heather,
where we spoke our vows, where she lost her life.
today marks the thirty years i have spent without my Heather.
but why, why on this day did this woman not girl,
with her midnight eyes, with her angry lover,
why come here!i am mere feet away from the couple now
and pass them by with a tip of my hat,
with a halfheartedly spoken, "Sorry to intrude."
i turn slightly as i journey on
and have my first look at the young man.
he is handsome, tall, and at an age i shall never again be.
a flash of jealousy courses through my broken heart.
this man not only has youth, he also has this woman.
and though anger laces his words, the pieces of conversation
i pick up indicate that so does love.
i turn and look out over the ocean,
the cruel, wretched ocean that took my Heather’s life.
behind me the young man says, "i love you, Deana.
isn’t that enough?"
he breathes deeply.
"marry me. spend your life with me."
how i envy them, how i wish i were
in the young man’s place, wish that i had sweet wife back.
i sigh and look back at them,
hoping that they shall love each other and be permitted to love
until their dying days.
they are embracing now, the heat and anger gone.
instead, upon the young man’s face resides
a kind of wondrous peace.
his face is open, showing such unguarded emotion
that i can no longer continue to encroach upon their privacy.
i look away, only to turn back moments later.
reason dawns.
had they not been here, had i not watched them embrace,
not seen the unguarded emotion etched on the young man’s face,
i would have returned home no different
than i have been for these last thirty years,
a man forgotten of splendor.
but no, though this place is sorrow made being,
i now realize that i must embrace
that which caused my heart to break.
for splendor still dwells here,
in the sound of the crashing waves,
in the smell of the salt air,
in the feel of the chill wind,
in the sun’s reflection
upon the blue-green surface of the ocean,
on the sand that bares much witness
to my habitual walks and those of others,
as evidenced in the footprints that crater
nigh the entire surface of the sand.
Heather’s image firmly fixed in my mind, i turn away
from the couple a last time and walk into the water,
and the peace that i have so longed for finally comes.
Image: Unknown
Words Much Like Poetry
