Always, The Shore
by Wayne H W Wolfson
I was late. My stomach had been upset and I had to have that settled.
Once I had mumbled out of the corner of my mouth in an absent minded tone and now I am known as a "thinker".
Because of this theory no one on the periphery would now have to pretend to look busy.
Indifference, intellectualism, spirituality. An Achilles heel, we all wear masks.
I am three: public, private and unknown. Which of us hates this?
What mystery of death that remained was often mundane and occasionally humiliating. There she lay, blue carpet of the living room floor tattooed by the slashes of a Venetian blind, the pattern stopping just before one foot.
Latex sheathed hands lift an arm from the wrist. From the doorway:
"There's some red chalk under her nails."
I bend forward. No, not chalk, Paprika.
The kitchen was close by. A uniform stood by the oven. I had an acute sense of smell and everyone knew to let me do a walk through before burning the coffee.
It was a nice day out. The part of me that did not want to be here wasn't working. All I could get from him was that we were almost out of coffee, we had not returned Chelsea's call and a scrap of a melody by Schubert.
I got what I could and headed out.
For us all, the clock was ticking. Even for those that knew this, who managed to do more? I used to strive for the simple pleasures. Stark, melancholy quartets by Schubert. I did my best thinking during a hot shower, but even that has become more a tool than ritual.
I get home and walk out back, to the water.
Long days and setting suns. Death turns towards winter. She looks for someone she knows.
What am I waiting for?
Are we?
© wayne h. w. wolfson 2005.
you can also read an interview with wayne wolfson by paul hawkins in our 'articles' section.
more of wayne's work can be found on his website terrible beauty.