I Took a Picture of You on the Beach Last Night

You’ll Never See It

You were walking just ahead of me at sunset, closer to the water, your skinny, white chicken-legs sticking out of your dress shirt. You were wearing a straw hat, as old white men on Mexican beaches do.

You walked in the sand as if it were the first time you’d ever been on a beach. When a bigger wave ripped through and you suddenly had water up to your thighs, you stopped, stunned, and looked around you, perplexed. I watched your confusion turn to awe, like a child feeling bubbles around his ankles for the first time. It was as if you hadn’t grown up on a beach — on the other ocean.

Sometimes I wonder whether I’ve spent so much of my life on the Pacific in order to separate from you. To lay claim to my own shore. But then I see you appear there ahead of me. I’m overcome by a desire to chase you, to catch up, and I know it’s my way of staying close.

“Wait!” I called out — in my imagination.

I ran up, and you turned around and said, “Ah! There you are!” as if you’d been waiting.

And you laughed. And I heard that clear as day, echoing through the crashing waves.

It’s in that split-second that my imagination fooled me into believing it was possible. I was compelled to run to you, and…