Muir Beach, California
If you were here, I would have had to stop you from running toward the woods, into the sea, too far, too fast. There is a stillness and a slowness to being in a place without you that I do not prefer, but find unnerving. I want you to be here so that you can run your fingers through the cypress needles like hair and watch the pelican jackknife itself into the water, again and again. I want you to hear the way the wind shakes the house. I want you to know the way the air smells. I want to see your face when you realize it is not “cat,” but “lynx.” I want to remember the intimacy of those split seconds when you are not running off somewhere, the urgency of this age before you run away from me forever.