Altea — A Memory

The shoreline shrunk as the agile tides stretched farther. The sky proclaimed of a storm. I sat on the beach watching nothing but his feet; old, wrinkled yet steady. The beach was cold and his feet, bare. There are two kinds of people in world. One who look up at the horizon and the other who look down at the waves. I wondered what kind he belonged. If you are wondering what is my kind, I must tell I belong to a no-kind. This no-kinds look not at the horizon or the beach but at the sky. It helps observe the ocean better for a reason that has never been ruminated. I always look up to the vastness of sky but that day I looked at him.

The sky was turning calmer and waves rougher. But he stood there in a composure that resonated something that was lost in the mundane madness. I started meditating on that something only to reach at, not what I looked for but what I was looking at. His hands were clasped behind his back. The gentle grip of his fingers reminded me of a painter’s poised grasp on the paintbrush. I tried imitating that grip on the pen in my hand but failed. My grip was either harsh or nervous. I’d always yearned to have that grip.

He stood still looking straight — at the waves or the horizon I couldn’t tell. The tides painted wet drawings on the shore that told a story I couldn’t discern: my task of the day. The pen in my hand hasn’t scribbled a world on the blank paper of the notebook. I looked at the arc of the horizon which vanished. The color of the ocean and the sky was one. The world was a vault. I felt I was in a gloomy painting where the waves were endowed with life. He stood somewhere inside the vault; I sat outside at its door. Thunder growled somewhere up. Our gaze went to the sky above us. It had turned brighter. When I looked back at him, he was gone…

The thunder growled blue
With random strokes of red
Drawing a sunless sunset
On a Spanish coastal town.

He stood bare feet on the cold sand
Staring at the silence before storm
Hatching the nuances between lines
Inventing colors of his own kind.

A wave brushed his toe
He felt it in his nape
Looked down at the wave
Regressing back to the sea
Leaving no trace
But a volatile shape.
The wave bid its goodbye
Which reflected in the eyes
In the mirror on the ground
The familiar face.

The wave was gone so was the mirror
He looked back at the sky
The storm drew nearer.
He waited for his true yclept
With a pencil and a page
With a growing calm and a waning rage.
Thunderstorm in a Spanish coastal town.