Mist

The bartender plays a new soundtrack, some sort of mellow bluegrass Americana, it weaves in and out of your consciousness and you forget where you are. She pours your beer as you walk in the door, the bar smells of old alcohol and mumbles: would that you could live in this space always. You think perhaps that is all you are trying to do with these words, build a line of credit that will let you live along a bar forever, and you will not be sorry. You always dreamed of being a recluse belonging, and now here you are: the drink has your name on it, the table in the corner, you make no excuses anymore.

We stood in the ocean this morning, last night's storm whipping up seaweed and shrimp carcasses around our ankles, a heavy fog rolling across the beach noncommittally, and all I could do was laugh. What a dream this life, after all, even as fall threatens on the horizon, even as old age sets in and everything is different from how it once was. Two years ago I sat across the river with a stupid smile on my face and thought how everything was different, and I had no idea. How many waves would I ride, how much terror would whip up from the depths below: how grateful would I be one day for just a moment's peace in the sun. I know every inch of your skin, every fold of your heart, what a tremendous gift is that?

The river looks the same now and yet completely different. I approach it carefully, feigning courage. Remember what lurks beneath. Believe in the wave that will make it all worth it.