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II.Remembrance
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I reminisce on when my brother would wake me in the dark of the morning and have me take him to work.
We would leave around four in the morning, but I did not mind so much.
I would cook eggs and bacon and smoke under the last moonlight.
I would open my blue eyes to see the blue sky littered with small stars still visible against the sunrise and I felt like a prince.
I felt American.
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Our old apartment was clean with maple wood floors and expensive furniture, rich in warm earthy tones.
Our windows were small or skinny, but plenty of light came in through the balcony, where I liked to sit and smoke.
The little home had both a patio and balcony for us.
I would drink vanilla coffee or eat chocolate to keep my mouth sweet while I read on the patio and watched the neighbors and dogs as I smoked.
The streets were thin and manicured with newly painted curbs.
Each passerby squeezed between the sidewalks that stretched along the tall homes, where bark and young trees sprouted against metal poles.
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There was a park across the street and next to it, a high school campus, and next to that, an elementary school campus.
Sometimes, there would be these energetic dance battles between large groups at the park.
They would wear baggy sweats and high-tops and holler, moving to the jumps on the stereo.
I liked it there at night when only the basketball court was lit.
I would sit on a bench with other watchers, and I remember thinking it was sad they did not get more recognition for their talent.
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I hate that the seas separate my brother from me.
Being under the same sky has its reassurances, but does not have one thing: our friendship side by side.
I hope you feel my regard.
We want to experience what it’s like to be a team again— and soon, given the chance, we’ll be on the water together.
We will be free to do whatever together, brother.
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We did not have a plan, but we were going down the coast.
Car lights would sweep by in yellow, red, and blue while we chain-smoked and listened.
We stopped, camped, and ran from our campsite, into the night.
We were restless, he was drunk, I was high, and we were laughing and climbing huge rocks on the oceanside.
We ran through the cold waves as they rolled in.
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The riptide crumbles before us, leveling out and washing over our sun-kissed feet in foamy salt.
The riptide floods over our toes, skin, and bones, weightily, pushing, then pulling back out, into the vast, deep sea.
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He stares upon the blue horizon, his soles sinking deeper in the sand,
as the waves come crashing in, pushing and pulling, pushing and pulling.
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The dock was a light shade of blue, its finish cracked like a snakeskin from its life in the sun.
One morning, on a pier in San Diego, I walked along blue wooden boards, lined up and nailed in neat rows.
The pavement was wet and inviting and did not smell foul; it was content and serene.
With quiet, small rocks and trash thrown about, a fountain sat empty and drained.
The ground spread to the railing, rusted and severed in places of wear.
I stepped in slow strides on a path to mindful meditation.
I enjoyed the thumps of my feet, how they echoed along the loosely nailed boards, creaking and croaking with every weight shift.
Smiles were held out toward me by those passing by on their fellow morning stroll.
A young girl with her father stood out. She wore an off-white dress, with a black waistband tied neatly in a bow upon her lower back, while he wore a button-up white dress shirt with khaki-colored pants and dark walking shoes.
They sat against the railing, looking upon the sea in coin-operated binoculars, sharing laughter.
I wanted a connection and laughter to share.
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I did not know what I was doing when going to the beach every time.
I did not care that I did not know what I was doing at any moment.
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The breeze had come in and it was lovely.
I inhaled the cold, coastal air as it blew against my jacket.
My hands found the metal railing, though I knew there were multitudes of germs and who knows what else upon the railing, and I followed it along the edge of the dock.
Gum and unknown stains were scattered amongst the painted pier, discoloring the blue.
The floor offered residency to local trash, every few feet or so, like a manic art piece, an art piece speaking volumes of its previous owners.
The seagulls and other birds seemed to appreciate them, chirping and pecking curiously like they were interesting snacks.
Boats float, swimming in black, brown, green, and blue.
I looked for a long time at the ripples they left behind, some being large, some being rather small, but all lingering for the same time.
There were cargo ships, military ships, speed boats, cruise ships, sailboats, and tugboats.
I favored the tugboats as they drew steam in dark billows, watching as they made their routes, crosses, and retreats.
They were plump and strong, quickly pulling vessels sometimes ten times their size, from the shallow harbor.
It was quite comical to consider: such a necessary nautical process of tiny boats pulling huge ships out of the trenches when the larger could never have done so themselves.
The quaint tugboats would blow their horn to announce their pull-off, reap the waterway, and allow the larger ships to push on to their departure.
I sat thinking about this and wondered if I had been lost in my mind.
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I have been in the sunlight for hours,
my throat feels raw and I want a drink of water.
You can be so thirsty and still never want to leave.
All that surrounded me was the forgotten water bottles of strangers and the salty water beneath me.
My body feels heavy because I am tired.
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I can always taste the beach; I still lick my lips and taste salt water as a virtue and sin.
As my days go, I think back to the time I spent on the pier.
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I would drive this road home so I could go by the beach.
I looked at everyone as I rode by and played music to awaken myself.
At daybreak, I would find my free parking spot between tall beach hotels—elegant, towering buildings.
On either side of me and along the shore, some silver and some green, all urban, with glass walls to separate rich settings from the common sidewalk.
My uneven parking lot was nestled amongst cement walls that angled sharply, allowing glimpses of palm trees swaying in the wind. The wind flung and smeared sand across the asphalt, which crunched beneath the soles of my bare feet.
Sometimes I would drive straight out to the beach without my shoes.
I would walk the dirty lot to the cement ramp, and then onto the wooden path, like an oath, taking steps down the stairs to the beach, with sand on the ground all the way.
The sunrise on my skin was beautiful with the first swim, wet, sticky, and rough with sand.
This is when I fell in love with the sand.
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The riptide crumbles before me, leveling out and washing over my sun-kissed feet in foamy salt.
The riptide floods over my toes, skin, and bones, weightily pushing out, and then pulling back in.
I stare upon the blue horizon, my soles sinking deeper in the sand as the waves come crashing in, pushing and pulling, pushing and pulling.
My love was endless as I watched the blue waves curling to throw themselves and flatten themselves again.
The water and the land embraced, and I loved them. As I loved them, I felt infinite—like the waves, endlessly crashing onto shores, soaking into the sand.
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