Bouillabaisse
The lighthouse on the point is automated now, but the old man won’t leave. He stares out to sea through the boarded windows, confused by the trawlers bright with radar, by the vast spools of optic cable dragged across the ocean floor all the way to Dover Beach. He doesn't care that the tide is coming in; I need to get back. I step on the sky’s reflection on the wet sand and plunge in up to my shin. Seagulls glide over the breakwater like jets approaching an aircraft carrier; they stall and drop, then tuck their beaks against their chests in preparation for the coming storm. I tear more mussels from the rocks and put them in my plastic bucket. I should not keep stopping, but I do. Not greedy, but grateful. I am so grateful for the mussels, and for the breakwater, and the gathering storm. And for the wet sand that’s slowing me down, making me work, a little bit nervous now, a little bit scared.
originally published in Boulevard
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