Taste — salt, of course — the gauze of it on my tongue, but also the oil slick metal under it, the residue of all the Sunday lives swirling by us.
Touch — metal bar — cool beneath my hands, paint feathering, the lull of sea air and sun on my winter neck.
Smell — I'm imagining it, I'm sure, the collective coffee whif from all the carried Peet's and Starbucks green circles and white-lidded sippies — Also, the irreplaceable beach drift — sand, the pickled sea, the rot of the pier.
Sight — Ana, my four year old girl, points to the seal black surfers bobbing in waves, breaking through, drifting. The funny little birds that line the rail, peck at stray crumbs, make her laugh...
Sound — Somehow, the ring of her laugh is all I can hear, even above the rush of ocean.
Extra — I want to cement my mind to this pier, want to fix these senses, collage myself in them, but already, now, outside Northern California rain falls, the fire flickers and hums, the salt air is just a thumbprint.
Senses courtesy of: Author Kim Culbertson
Touch — metal bar — cool beneath my hands, paint feathering, the lull of sea air and sun on my winter neck.
Smell — I'm imagining it, I'm sure, the collective coffee whif from all the carried Peet's and Starbucks green circles and white-lidded sippies — Also, the irreplaceable beach drift — sand, the pickled sea, the rot of the pier.
Sight — Ana, my four year old girl, points to the seal black surfers bobbing in waves, breaking through, drifting. The funny little birds that line the rail, peck at stray crumbs, make her laugh...
Sound — Somehow, the ring of her laugh is all I can hear, even above the rush of ocean.
Extra — I want to cement my mind to this pier, want to fix these senses, collage myself in them, but already, now, outside Northern California rain falls, the fire flickers and hums, the salt air is just a thumbprint.
Senses courtesy of: Author Kim Culbertson
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