We are Home

They are cold—

The waters.

Even as the

summer

sun

sears.

And yet—

I feel none of that.

Not plunge, not dive—

inchmeal immersion.

Entranced.

✦✦✦

Earlier—

First came the house on the hill—

infinity of windows to wash,

the view—

of ocean—

the value.

Second,

million dollar cottage to clean—

salt wind smears

versus our rags.

Always—

more.

“There are many rooms

in my Father’s mansion.”

Kneeling

in a tub

to scrub it,

my hands lacking power.

Even as I desired—

de sire,

“of the father”—

to give it my all.

My body engaged—

something else stirring…

Inside me:

words—

heard,

known—

“I’m cleaning out rooms in my psyche.”

Breathing—

into bewilderment—

What does that even mean?

Then—

It’s enough

to know:

Whatever this is:

Good.

Beyond important—

Essential.

Unavoidable.

✦✦✦

Midday,

the deli’s clatter.

Maya’s arrival.

The pulsing porch—

kids darting,

wafts of dough—

unseen beneath the planks:

the Atlantic’s briny breath.

She glides up

the wooden steps.

My body lifts

from the rocker

into our smiling embrace.

Her breath on my neck,

fans the coal

of the holy cleanse

simmering

inside me.

The presence of people

remind us

to peel apart.

Her “hi” meets my melt—

I cannot speak.

She tilts her head,

waiting.

I shrug, foolish,

afraid of disappointing her.

An awkward silence is one thing—

but minutes—stretching.

“Okay.”

Her smile’s glow—

mercy on my muteness.

The first time I saw her,

across the red-mat gym:

Sweatshirt snagged halfway off,

hiding her face.

gi top dangling from her belt.

Her tee shirt creeping up,

a hand tugging it down—too late—

a stripe of belly revealed.

Then,

her grin—

Pure.

Radiance.

Zero self-consciousness.

If I could ever be with a woman like that…

Fantasy formed.

✦✦✦

Two months later.

Judo sparring

spurred summer swim.

Her confession:

she’d cheated on her fiancé.

My conclusion:

not partner potential.

“I feel awful.”

“I can’t tell him.”

Tormented,

tangled in lies.

Now—

free from impressing,

I became real.

No polish,

or pose,

belly relaxed,

fun flowed.

So—

Why not a fling?

No matter that

Ms. Thackery,

my therapist,

is right:

“unavailable women

don’t lead to relationships.”

If I could be with a woman like that…

And then I was.

✦✦✦

Six days—

more swimming holes,

slices at Antonio’s,

so

much

love—

making—

we barely separated—

The scent of our sweat

merged

into a rapturous mix

such that

showering felt false.

until—

the seventh morning.

I drove to Boston for the tournament,

leaving behind the Ark,

my communal home,

and Maya,

cradling my Ark-mate’s baby

asleep in her arms.

I wondered

was she getting too entwined?

✦✦✦

Against the odds—

having never battled black belts before—

shoulder separating,

stabbing pain—

I took third.

Months of training,

pounds shed,

had paid.

Homeward—

over rivers, around reservoirs,

threading inland,

yet spirit tugging me seaward.

Driving—

clumsy, swervy.

One arm

shifting, steering.

Every bump a twinge—

alert,

awake—

hoping Maya would be waiting,

while wondering:

how much is our desire

driven by the forbidden…

Back at the Ark—late.

Dark, silent, hollow.

Maya gone,

my belly breath held—

tight—

a sigh slipped out,

as I dropped my duffle,

sagging in a heap—

like me.

Even the black

of her bikini,

no longer hanging,

beside my bed.

Blinking plastic red,

Her smiling sound,

“Congratulations!”

Instantly I craved

the press of our bodies—

the pang disturbing.

✦✦✦

The next morning rose,

me waking late

slow sounds floating in,

child chirps,

Ark-mate’s kids’ outdoor game.

I fought the phone—

say what you must—

kept putting it down.

The Maple Grove for brunch.

Do we touch? Kiss?

No—

Sit, opposite.

“Listen,

I’ve been thinking.”

“Me too.”

“You first.”

We both knew.

Wrong—

bound to burn.

So,

we agreed.

Fresh day,

Clean slate.

New commitment.

Breath lighter,

eyes brighter.

Friends.

Just friends.

A vow—

no more sex.

✦✦✦

Days later.

We are on the edge

of the island,

the waters—cold—

mesmerizing me.

Bare feet stepping

on black-speckled sand,

Vow still fresh—

windows wiped, cottages cleaned,

yet the soul’s cleansing churns on.

Ocean—

glimpsed through glass before—

now summons—

a pull to the horizon,

grey-blue chill of infinity.

My shorts fall,

to the earth.

I step out,

toward the tide.

My nakedness—

known,

yet new.

Maya lets me go—

alone.

Step by step,

my body

delivers me

into the Atlantic.

The Word

is

rising.

And then

it speaks.

Not out loud.

No sound.

Outer world undisturbed—

the words saturate inward.

Unmistakable.

A voice I know—

yet had never heard.

Not mine.

Familiar,

foreign,

matter of fact.

The fact—

“Daniel,

you are home.”

Home.

Ocean.

The Atlantic that birthed me.

This island.

Despite

no family—

no roots—

no right.

A voice?

Hearing voices,

the lip of lunacy.

Spoken to me?

I—opposed to religion…

Yet it is—

a declaration,

the weight of water.

Once.

I hear it once.

Repetition not needed.

Understanding not required.

Doubt impossible.

A radio—

suddenly tuned to station—

static into sound.

Yet I am not searching…

For song—

or news—

or transmission.

Yet it comes—unbidden—

an invitation, a charge—

amidst salt and sea

for me alone.

Then,

soundlessly,

Maya glides up beside me—

Now,

she too,

without words—

Below the surface,

unseen,

where energy flows—

a current

conducts us—

hands

arms

her legs—

human tentacles,

impelled by spirit—

our bodies

interweave.

Her eyes—

sage, alive,

deeper than sea grass.

Sacred mirrors

of green fire—

ancient portals,

into the void—

home.