The sun was shy this morning. Maybe it's coming into work late today. Maybe the sun is exhausted, or tired of being called names for all the misery it caused in the past few weeks. 6:35 am, coffee, my eyes seek the horizon covered by grey puffs.
The light reveals a lone swimmer who'd been there since dark. I envy their freedom, fearlessness, foolishness. I fear the vastness, anything past the breaking waves but I'm compelled to be here. "Worry" is a bad habit I have been trying to shake since I grew up.
Age 18, I could talk any friend with a car to leave east side parties or clubs, drive north on the 101, exit Sunset Boulevard and wind our way to the water. After awhile, they'd put firewood and lighter fluid in their trunks before a Saturday night out with me, just in case. I didn't care that I missed my strict mama's curfew or that the tide soaked my clothes with sand. Or when my perfectly blow dried hair became a mess of swirl and the wind erased any trace of Maybelline and Cover Girl. I didn't care about homework, chores or bills. I would plant my feet on the shore, let the tide rush them and be transported somewhere while standing in the same place. Free, fearless, foolish
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