back at the beach
remembering how to speak
how to swear
If it weren’t for the babies, now speaking in sentences, wanting motorcycles instead of milk, it would seem as if time had stopped. The abandoned boat turned pelican nest floating in the bay. The truck selling oranges, announcing the fruit with the same pre-recorded sales pitch, through a large megaphone tied to the roof.
The fish tasted as good as ever; even better when I remembered I didn’t need a fork to eat it. Fresh tortillas picking up each bite.
It took only slightly longer to remember I didn’t need shoes.
This place is a constant lesson in what you do not need.
How long until I remember that I don’t need my comb?
How many days must pass til I remember that I don’t need my calendar?
And what happens when I remember that I don’t need anything
that isn’t already here?
