Ebb

Sea Aster

To you, the gulls on the breakwater don't look my way. Only the sea asters sway in the wind.

To you, I've come out to the night sea and I'm retying my shoelaces. The wind is strong, and even with my head bowed, the sound of the waves brushes over my whole body. Even if I call your name like this, you won't hear. Still, tying my laces in a double knot, I hold close the wish to call it once more. I walk on sand the waves wash up over and erase. With every step, the place I left disappears a little. Have you, too, ever given someone's name to the wind, the way I do.

Two Sparrows on the Windowsill

The name of your hometown came up on the morning news. Familiar signs and streets passed across the screen. I stopped mid-sip of my coffee and heard that name twice over. I thought of the alleys you used to walk there, but those alleys were already the way they looked after you left. On the television I turned on after the news, the same name came up twice again. In the meantime, out on our apartment balcony, one more sparrow had come to sit side by side on the windowsill. Was the morning you saw there the same as mine, I wonder. The same light, the same dust, the same air. That thought held me for a moment, and when the news ended it let me go quietly. Your alley was there on the screen I turned on after the news, and now two sparrows sit side by side on the balcony. For as long as they sit on that sill, at least, I find myself wishing your day is clear. The weather in your hometown must be lovely and clear today. Two sparrows remained on the windowsill, and the screen was already passing through the morning of some other town.

To you, Over the winter sea, the sun lies down long. The low light skims the waves, spreading silver, and stops at the end of the breakwater. If I can't leave this spot even with my hands aching from cold, it's because I know this light will soon be gone. There were hours like this when I walked with you, too. In that space where the waves came up to our ankles and drew back, we didn't come down from that hill, saying nothing. Even now, that hour is still there on the breakwater. I know the way back, and yet my steps linger out there by the sea.

The Breakwater Where the Gulls Sit in a Row

To you, The afternoon sun lay long along the breakwater. The gulls have been sitting in a line for a while now, and that spot, I suddenly realize, is exactly where we used to lean our backs. The gulls gaze at the sea with faces that wait for no one. That day we counted the waves with our toes and talked about how far we could go. The waves still break against the breakwater in the same rhythm, and the gulls bob their heads as if they had been listening to that sound for years. Even now, on crowded days, I find myself looking for that spot without meaning to.

To you, I tried to measure the distance to the lighthouse. That path, which felt so short when we walked it together, ended at a single empty bench this morning. The waves no longer erase two sets of footprints at once. They only push them away, one at a time, quietly. Even when the wind blew, the lighthouse's light didn't go out. As if to say it's still there, it keeps watch through the night. I'll be like that too. Even if you don't come again, the morning will.