Tuesday June 15, 2021

We arrive to the beach come morning, skies clear after a light shower, ocean mild, modest in its roar. Frankie sets to work digging with a toy shovel, collecting shells. I sit as would a pensive Christ, pondering love’s symptoms: your words to my ears “like ghee and milk,” your voice lingering amid your absence. Before I know it, Frankie’s asleep in the car, and we’ve begun our journey home, Canned Heat on the stereo, hawks circling the sky overhead.