Old Photographs

We dipped our feet there, in the sun,
the waves licking our heated skin like cold
tongues at our toes, then our ankles and our shins.
The salty breeze tasted of brine and
freedom. We were limitless. In that foreign place,
we were virgins making love to a stranger
language than we had ever heard. The first time
we stumbled, our tongues clumsily slipped
and stuttered on unfamiliar vowels, unfamiliar
sounds. The second time, we spoke
slowly – carefully. We were infants learning to crawl
across a sandy beach, our weight slightly sinking in
with each furtive step. We found joy despite
the barriers. The sun darkened our arms and legs;
our faces were pink with happiness. Happiness
dwelled in that place – in the sun, by the ocean,
in the indecipherable language that made strangers
smile at us through crinkled bright eyes
and smooth accents. The brightest colors were there:
the warmest yellow, the freshest green,
the happiest blue. And so, after you died
I went back to that place where we found
love and happiness. What I found now
were murky waters, sticky heat
and the smell of fish everywhere. They looked at me
with dull eyes and the roads were cracked and unpaved.

By Lisa Moy

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