Islands lost behind a smudge of clouds.
Lone surfer.
Man above it all in an improbable flying machine.
Weekenders debating the temperature of the water.
Young couple overheard: How long do you plan to be out here? he asks.
I'm walking all the way to the harbor, she says.
Get on a boat. Sail away from him, I telepathically advise.
And me. I clumsily drop my mug of coffee into the sand, filling its spout with grit.
Cursing the loss of comfort's brew, I pick it up, spilling what remains on my pants.
Later, in the coffee shop, a young black man enters with his two children. His tee-shirt reads
"I can't breathe."
3 comments:
We have so far to go. And here we are, each of us on some sort of mission whether we know it or not.
What Ms Moon said. Especially the part about the mission. So poignant, this.
A couple blocks from my house someone spray painted/tagged on a wall, "I can't breath"
Both the sentiment and the use of the wrong word pain me. The latter shouldn’t as much as it does.
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