Well, then, it’s done; the lessons lessened, the assumed presence, the big space, disappeared. You were always good but better with the hair, somehow, more photographic, unruly and ferociously sweet.
The beach sand is cool, today, on the feet, and the gulls unconcerned. A hawk now, drifting, effortless, waiting, watching and then plunging with clenching talons. The fish, unawares, is doomed.
It is gray today and the clouds move quickly; the waves come today as they did yesterday and will tomorrow, even though you think they should pause, for just a moment, for Andrew, and you think that it may be true as someone once said that there is only one prayer, really, only one that matters, one that needs saying and repeating until it makes sense, complete sense, and it is this: Thy will, not mine, be done.
Just that. It’s all there is. That, and the aching heart.