perdido beach, in nouns and adjectives.

the drugged feeling of not enough sleep, eyelids heavy and slow, polite good mornings, sleepy silence.

breakfast blend brewed weak in beach themed mugs.

a small child’s hand in mine, tiny chubby ams gripping me desperately as we brave depths of four feet in the pool.

the roar of the world around me–water splashing, children screaming–dimming as water fills my ears.

how it feels to lay my whole tired body on the bed, or the beach chair, an hour and a half break.

emphatic butterflies of hunger, stirred by salty ocean air and hours with long children.

salt in my mouth, a thin layer of hot sand on my feet.

the bloody, metallic taste of steak (my first steak in ten years).

laughter and conversation between the “adults.” as if that even means anything. grayson saying that we are “mommy’s girls.” a lot of keeping my own thoughts in.

my body glowing in an odd combination of red and tan.

the world, both sharpened and blurred, wearing only one contact.

a text message, ringing unanswered across the condo.

grayson’s eyes, cloudless and deep blue. those dark, drowsy eyelashes–the child’s going to be an artist someday.

windows down on a night drive down the coastline. jazz floating from our radio and out the windows in slow, sultry swirls.

slap of a dismembered jellyfish tentacle across my lower abdomen. the resulting flush of red.

these moments of quiet, snatched during naptime.

the innocence and enthusiasm and devastation and honesty of young children.

the advance and retreat of the ocean, divide and conquer of my memories. the past marches by like a christmas parade, and i’m all new.