predication

My eyes follow the sun strokes along the canvas of water. The sun has a knack for capturing shimmer. It's painted the water in easter egg colors as it did the tiny rowboat that skips along. I'm watching from the shore, back slouched, knees huddled in my ripped shorts. I need to stop picking at the thread, as I ball up little mounds of thread into the sand.

He's out there entertaining a family guest. If it wasn't a family guest, it would be some other guest. Sometimes they're so exclusive I never make it to the path towards the shore to join them. She's beautiful and inappropriately dressed in a confection of lace and ribbons. There's a small, pink stain where I spilled wine on it a long time ago, when he surprisingly embraced me in a kiss. Her naivety believes looking like me is all it takes.

They turn on cue to wave at me, as if I'll give my approval with a single wave back. But I'm not looking at them. Instead my gaze has focused on the dark where the sun has never finished painting. Yet, there is some spectrum of blue. He's yelling my name, repeatedly, desperately, yelling my name. I grace them with my attention. She's wet from an unexpected wave. I laugh.

When they return to the ground that covers my feet, I pull the rope towards the shore and take his hand. He hops out, takes her hand and sends her up the path home. We tie up the boat as she slowly turns back to watch us as I watched them. There are connections we never deny, and taking the ropes away from my hands he silently asks me to join him.

The last time I sat on that rowboat was over a year ago. I'd forgotten what the tiny ripples of water feel like. I'd forgotten what it's like to be painted by the sun.