by Sara Ercan
All I could think of in the intoxicating heat of that summer were the pristine yet
unpredictable waters of the ocean.
The Californian ocean I had visited two summers ago was inexplicably wild, whirling its
contents with a strength which paralleled the strongest of West Coast winds.
Now sitting on the wet East Coast grass, and lazing beneath the sun’s majestic rays of
warmth, my mind wonders back to the seas of my childhood.
The Mediterranean waters I had come to know are more temperate, less dangerous.
Yet, they manage to the capture the essence of life’s absurdity.
I always imagined seeing skeletons down at the bottom of the ocean, their
phantasmagoric images floating around in my young mind and resulting in hysterical
Every night, I pictured them wandering down where the sand is soft and beige, and
touching it is like caressing the skin of the one you love.
Soon, I made the discovery that pulling the soft sand out of the pristine, clear water
turns it into mud.
And the skin of the lover who loves no more turns into mire,
When touched by the tears of those they betrayed.
The smooth, tender flesh dulls into a lubricious pile
Parts of it, escaping through the cracks between fingers, finding its way underneath
fingernails, and causing great discomfort to those who attempt to tame it.
Nothing seems to be left of its orignal glory.
Alas, I come to understand that some things are better left untouched.