Flotsam

You are speechless.

Watching as the tide creeps slowly
toward the castle made of sand.

You know how unstable it is,

as the water washes closer

and closer.

The inevitable destruction

makes the breath catch

in your throat.

Yet I sit there,

completely unaware

of impending doom

As you consider

your words carefully.

Nervous that I may bolt if you say the wrong thing.

But you linger as you form the sounds on your tongue.

Knowing it is the single most important thing you've ever said, ever.

"It's going to be OK."

I look up from the sand, feeling it trickle between my fingers, and cock my head to the side.

The wind has died. All I can hear is the sound of the tiny waves as they inch closer and closer to the palace I've built. If I had made it from the flotsam in the sand would it have a chance?

Or does it even matter?

I can build another one.

I have a bucket and a pail and a picture in my head.

"I know. But do you believe?"

A gull cries as you take my hand in yours, brush my hair out of my eyes. I'm daydreaming of fireflies in a jar while the gulls circle our lunch, waiting for opportunity.

Maybe some day my senses will return, I think, and I'll wake up to the sound of laughter and cartoons and the feel of little bodies crawling in to warm. Hear your breathing and be home again.