Looking out
over dark waters,
you told me
you could read the waves.
They came
rolling in
from off in a black distance
to crash in to the rocks
below our feet.
I stood there,
silent as a mortuary,
listening to the sea birds
calling out to each other
through the darkness.
I understood
their urgent cries,
for on a night like this,
to be separated from their flock
meant certain death.
I put my hand around your waist,
pulling you closer.
I heard your breath
let out
in a long, unburdening sigh.
Your head,
long hair kept back
by your red knit cap,
rested on my shoulder.
I took a sip
from the coffee in my hand,
spiked with bourbon
from the flask in my pocket,
the one you had given me
for Christmas last year,
back when things were easy.
I looked up,
the clouds roiling and churning,
threatening rain,
that would turn to snow.
I held you closer,
this time you gasped,
as my hand put pressure
on the scar,
still fresh
from where the doctors
has removed the carcinoma.
My chest got tight
and my eyes stung.
Another sip of coffee
washed down the hard lump
that was growing in my throat.
A huge wave crashed below us
and even as high up as we were,
I could feel the salt spray
on my face.
The clouds marched
ever closer,
and you,
now held me
tighter than before,
as if the story
the waves told you
was the same
as he story they told me.
Hard times coming.
A cold winter.
Sickness.
Uncertainty.
War.
It didn’t matter,
not in that moment.
We held on
for another few minutes,
silent,
except for our breathing,
and the seabirds,
and the wind,
and the crash of the waves.
“I can read the waves.”
You said again,
just before we turned
to walk back to the car.
“I know.” I replied.
“So can I.”
HG – 2021
