by Eliza Mimski
Two months ago you were here and now you’re not and the street that I walk down - the long line of telephone poles, the line of stucco houses, the menacing foxtails on family front yards - go on forever. I turn up the hill and face the sun. I pant-walk up the grade, sit on the top step and gaze out at the ocean, a massive blue plate of remembering.
The ocean is wise. It holds our memories - that day on the beach with you when I first met the world. You and I walked along that shore. Don’t think the ocean doesn't remember this.
It’s hot out, which means I yearn for things.
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Eliza Mimski lives and writes in San Francisco. She's a retired teacher and has been published in literary journals across the net. https://elizamimski.wordpress.com/