In Waimanalo we rose before the sun and walked to the beach to greet it, the sky lightening first as if to trumpet the arrival of the main star. We took yogurt, cereal, bananas, bought coffee at the convenience store on the way, carried our paper cups carefully and yet without concern. In my other hand, your small palm, your soft fingers, slightly plump still though nothing like a year ago, when they were all pillows. They do more now, are in motion all the time, building and dreaming. Pointing. I wondered what it would be like to live there, walking every day to watch the sun separate from the ocean’s edge, your hand getting bigger all the while, Christmases warm, your birthday too. I couldn’t imagine it, though yes, of course I could. None of this could possibly be real, it is too much good fortune: the coffee, the hand in mine, the water. The morning, standing with strangers on the same sand, waiting for the day to begin.
The Wandering Introvert 