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A Life Fragment

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 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.

May 4, 2009 3:01 am

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