Water

The water rolls gently this evening, barely touching my toes before retreating.  The tide has been going out for over an hour and already there are several victims — crustaceans, spider crabs, minnows.

I had looked in the mirror after dinner, trying to smile without producing a dozen crows' feet. I have no bangs to pull over my forehead creases, no make-up to hide sunken eyes, widened pores, parentheses that hug my smiles.  I am what the mirror revealed — a bald, skinny woman.

The water slides away, taking bits of sand and shells, abandoning a few more victims who flop about in one last attempt to find the world that sustained them. 

The seagulls send me their pleas.  Join me. Join me. Their screeching, a sound similar to keening, rises from the depths, persistent, feral, agitated.

I took my medicine and decided to run, trotting towards the west end of the island.  I was there in time to see the sun slip away, alone, a small glow left behind as a memory. 

I watch the water creep away. Another hour and I will no longer be thinking of this water's beauty, but of nocturnal sounds — the cool night air, wet sand upon my pants.  After it leaves, the water is only what it has touched, all that it has sustained, all that it has stranded.  

I can barely hear the seagulls, or the trickling waves, or even my breath.