Vacation

Vacation

Somehow uncertain

until on the peripherals of the headlights,

you glimpse the leaves of the first cliche palm tree beckoning you over

state lines.

Sometimes not at all

with the hurry-rush of

beach volleyball and sand runners

skidding through the crystalline gain to the vibrant yellow umbrella

that is today's finishmark.

Or tomorrow's.

Because the sun is blistering the backs of thin girls in brightly dyed bikinis,

and the surf breathes just as steadily as the wrinkled grandmother peering

over the water-warped pages of her novel

at her hectic grandchildren

patting the jagged edges of a lopsided sand castle.

A little girl sits on the edge of the tide alone,

splashing her palms mindlessly in the shallow sheets of water

that swell and sink from the field of calm blue

stretched before her.

Her eyes are immersed,

deeply,

in the expanse of soaken-seaweed ocean.

This is where she finds her childhood,

in the muddy sand on the edge of the tide,

cold and molded to the shape of her hand.

This is where she discovers pain in the sharp vemon of a pink jellyfish.

And happiness in the warm sun.

And this is where she can see the world,

and eternity,

lingering just past the horizon line.