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the white table

The days are not long. The nights are short. Guitars are hiding in cases, with scraps of paper tucked inside. The pen is full. There is a fresh notebook, with creamy pages. The little white desk is in the middle of the living room, a cascade of receipts and laundry perched on it.

I clean it off, have lunch as it stares back at me. This focal point, this fulcrum where my thoughts become real, this cheap folding table from Ikea. It is familiar, and patient.

the black sands of Ureki


I wonder what might happen if we all measured time by how often we stand looking out at the ocean. The muscle of the sea turns in on itself, a clock, a pendulum, a rocking chair. All at once, the fragrance of salt and seaweed returns, that sticky perfume on the back your arms as you step into a cool elevator, and to the hushed room. There is a balcony, and almost a view. Trees are bending in a low wind. The sound of children laughing filters up to us.

V is jumping on the bed, more puppy than three year old. E is shuffling around the space as if she is measuring it, shoulders hunched in curiosity. N is already unpacking the suitcases, lining the shelves in the closets until she is satisfied.

There is black, magnetic sand here in Ureki. They say it has magic properties, that it can cure your ills. I see children that look like they have been rolled in black tar, with grandmothers spraying the sand off of them, as they shout from the cold water. The black sand scatters across floors, the insides of shoes. I imagine we will take a good amount back with us, without knowing it.

I get a proper sunburn on the first day, my skin staring back at me that night, that red face of mine in the mirror. There is a bottle of cold wine, with great beads of sweat running down its sides. A table on the balcony, a little chair that is already familiar. Here, I will write more of that new book when everyone has gone to sleep, when the only sound will be the scratch of my pen on good paper, and the sea.

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