Though I cannot see it through
the dark, I can hear the ocean from here; the surf crashing against the rocks,
the current sweeping the water back and forth:
Swoosh Swish Swash
Breakers throwing themselves onto
boulders, pushing into crevices:
Plop—Plip—Polyp Plup—Ploop—Polyp Polyp—Plop—Plop
No two waves sound alike.
The guest bedroom is overlooking
the bay from the villa’s second floor.
The rich are not happier, I can tell you that. They simply conduct their feuds and brood
over their
problems in specious, tastefully furnished houses. Fine wine stacked in the racks. Porches hover over the ocean. Expensive cars in the driveways.
Blue blooded New Englanders. Well educated. Well traveled. Well manners. (Their
vacation homes were bought while my grandparents escaped flaming Europe.) I cleverly interject a comment into their
conversation here and there. To get their polite attention for one, perhaps two
minutes. Unfamiliar with their terminology, following the chat around
the dinner table feels like cracking open a beer bottle with my teeth.
I do not ski
I am not well connected
I am not even from
here
In the morning I will wake to the
summery sun pouring through the windows, and step downstairs to the morning
room for some coffee. But tonight
I shall lounge on the wide guest bed with my laptop for company and listen to
the ocean, as the surf crashes against the rocks:
Plep—Plop—Polyp Ploop—Plip—Plup
Plop—Plip—Ploop
I peer into the inky night, and
the ceaseless waves wash away my worries.
