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  • Like old cells disintegrating in the oily trailings of lavender sunscreen
    a piece of me melts into the calm glass of the ocean.
    Emptiness in a guise of silk un-sheaths my skin,
    unclogging pores of old stories.
    The story-less-ness of my being comes in the form of sea, mountain, sky.
    This vastness, of which I am...
    I am That. I am That.
    I am not just the stories of my life.
    But turning back I can see the vague outline of a motel where my aunt is waiting.
    Waiting to take me back to the story of my mother
    and the saga of her illness.
    They are all there, waiting for me to step back into my life
    so that I can play a character in their play and they can go on playing theirs.
    As that is what we all must do, it seems.
    The human journey is not the same as the ocean's, is not the same as the mountain.
    There is something that speaks to us from the darkest depths of inertia.
    It says,


    I don't want to go.

    Instead, I contemplate how many steps it would take to melt into this vastness,
    to become a part of it forever...
    But there are many different approaches to going, and many places to go.
    And maybe I can take a piece of this emptiness back with me.
    The ocean inside instead of out, that sometimes wells up in the form of joy, anger, tears...
    unclogging my pores from within.
    Expression as a form of emptying.

    So I return to the hotel and sing the blues with strange guests of my aunt who I just met three days ago and now sing harmony with
    as if we had been singing together for ages.

    We eat pizza and watch Jeopardy and I bounce on the bed like a five year old,
    quietly marveling at how all of our stories brought us to this moment in time and space.
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