We just sent you an email, containing instructions for how to reset your password.
He trips on the rock hard sand, his new shoes scraping against the pebbles. We laugh. The shutter of his camera fires. It's aimed at the sky. I point at the big dipper and tell him the story of the mother bear that became a constellation. I've told that same story to a million other people. But it doesn't sound the same this time. We don't talk for a while.
The waves sound the same as the ones across the lake in a different season. When the sand isn't so hard and my fingers have feeling. It's all the same, it all sounds the same. Leaning over a pebble, the steam of our lungs mixes and disappears.
Close to midnight on a January evening. In Chicago. At the beach. School today, school tomorrow. A lakefront breeze cuts me to pieces, and I know it's the same.