| It is the envelope of a Christmas card, originally addressed to a woman (name redacted), rejected and re-addressed to a man, Mark. It has been torn into not through careful excision of the gluey lip or even a dip-sweep | ||
| of a forefinger but a hasty diagonal rip with little concern for the contents within. It is 72 degrees here this moment, no clouds, negligible wind. I am sitting on a short wall of stones watching the beach recreation, waiting my turn to recreate, scooping toefuls |
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of sand, reacclimating my feet to its texture and weight. Every beach has distinct sand. This one has dark, dense granules. A foot excavation detects paper and I pinch it between toes drawing it up to my hand. My mind paints the back story, rearranging |
| dendrites of the family tree, imagining an appropriate “this”, picturing an Olivia struggling to cope with her first Christmas without a “this”. She will be OK; it is 72 degrees and that bell jingle says an ice cream is on its way. | ||
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