16 January 2006 | Vol. 5, No. 4

Just Beyond That

by AMANDA BLACK

This is eternal, this lack of skill and know-how, this devout, this impractical, this inoculated pink and golden dawn, one or two languages in bed, a desk, a bureau, a table, two or three chairs. I stayed awake. I stayed among the fragile sand hoppers; the damp white sand in front of the sliding water; mothers with babies in their arms; strong, broad-shouldered fathers. I whistled a rollicking dance tune, never asking myself to stop, never telling myself if I stayed here, in my fancy petticoat and red ribbons, we could get this whole thing resolved in our own particular fashion. Should I order you a box of crackers, love, should I spin around on my toes and read poetry from a cookbook? The many children are all around with roses in their cheeks. It does not matter when you are all grown up: the faded carpets and rag rugs on the floor, the breath and the emerald sea and still just beyond that: the sea rising higher than the walls, pale orange and olive green. I will build my very fine sand castle, it's banner tacked to the highest tower. Just you say something. Just you speak, my fool.