The Summer Is Halfway Over

Water splashing around my knees while I walk in the coarse white sand. The sunlight and the river sparkle like filthy diamonds while the river passes all the places it knew, way back when. Like mouths full of salt water swimming over the oysters that lived here before the sand turned black with oil.
Emily is laughing reading this, she knows the cycles of time so much better than I do. She offers me a piece of watermelon on a skewer along with sweet peppers and home grown tomatoes. It tastes SO good!

Three years later on, and the river is still running down deep, where we can't see it. Put your head down under the water and hear it rush in your ears. Your hands are so cold, in the ugly river. You keep thinking that if you could only grab the pool ladder and climb out, the air would chill your body for just a minute in the autumn sun, and then you could run to your motel room and sleep. You forgot about the memories that come with that, didn't you? The feel of the cold wet rocks under your sandals, the slip of leather on granite under the cold water. The grit of the sand under your feet, calling out like a sentry on Governor's Island while the tide kisses your ankles, your knees. Oars break the water, Walt Whitman is laughing in the sun.