Wish You Were Here

tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35192195.post-50828482588877575642007-05-24T10:53:00.000-07:002007-11-15T19:36:14.192-08:00Wish You Were Here<div align="center"><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_bM5QDFXYwzU/RlXRMlrIf3I/AAAAAAAAAMU/awQ0yxKIT3w/s1600-h/BeachHouse_small.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5068186969877020530" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_bM5QDFXYwzU/RlXRMlrIf3I/AAAAAAAAAMU/awQ0yxKIT3w/s320/BeachHouse_small.jpg" border="0" /></a>"Wish You Were Here" by C. A. McAndrew </div> It's a beach house. I ought to be happy here. You thought so. You went on about the golden days on the shore, the seashells, sea gulls, sea stink, salt air. You called me a golden idol of the South Seas, lying on the sand, knowing just how ornamental I looked lounging there. It was a stupid thing to say. You meant it to be flattering. I let you think so. They aren't golden days now. You'd say, I think, the gold was transmuted into lead. It's the sort of thing you would say. I say, it was the universe's dirty trick. Like hurricanes. The universe throws hurricanes at beach houses. (I could love a hurricane. Better a whirling suffocating thrill than this everlasting calm.) You'd like to hear that, wouldn't you? Puffed up like a gull picking over fish bones, to hear me say I missed you. I won't say it. You made this place for me--this world, the golden shore, the beach house. Then you caught a case of the scruples and wanted to go back to the true world, the dutiful world. No South Sea idols there. You chose. I chose. You were the alchemist. And this world began to die. Now the days stretch, like the sea to the horizon I can never quite see. Out there it's all frantic, ugly, scrabbling life, nothing to enjoy. <center>*</center> I know you've come back. The step's creak gives you away. The flap-flop of your sandals, the whine of the door you don't open. I don't answer. I've heard it all before. It's only in my mind, now. You never think of me; you're long gone. I lounge on the veranda, watching the lifeless waves. There aren't many seagulls now. The dead ones fall into the sea, and the wavelets gulp them up. Just bare sand and ripples, and the salt stink sunk into my bones. I could have gone to you. The door was open. Leave the beach house for the anthill. Of course. I ought to have my head examined. I said that about you, remember? When you came out with one of your mad flatteries. And you'd laugh and bow and say something even worse. It made me crazy sometimes. Am I crazy now? To be unhappy here? No one depending, demanding, draining my life away. You'd say so. I think you would. I don't know any more. You'll never come, I know. I don't want anyone coming here. It's my place, my world, now. The water's cold, so I stay on the veranda looking ornamental, for no one but myself and the dead little waves, and the leaden sky. (c) 2007 C. A. McAndrew Jeffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07386092048101815743noreply@blogger.com