of Sunday Salt Water Summers
Water seems to be a theme that pervades my existence; in all I can say that I would not be comfortable living in a space that was not remotely close to water, preferable salt water. There is a certain serenity to the ebb and flow of the ocean, spreading it fingers into the farthest crevices, mingling with fresh water, blurring the line between the salt that defines itself, and separates it from other water. It corrodes too, sticking to it's victims even after it's wet existence has faded, as if painting what it touches and leaving a sticky reminder of its presence. Memories persist of my youth, center stage, waiting to thrust into the week from the catapult of a summer Sunday. I would saunter in a youthful lolly gag across my shore house's sharp sting gin grass, crabby as my temperament of another weekend gone. My hair would be dried to a salted matte and my skin lightly salted as lay face down on the grass, my arms wrapped in front of me, my chin safely nestled in the bend