684. perhaps it was

To talk of it is to be beside it, to speak of the ocean rather than swim the water. And those that speak of these things, speak from the shore, they speak from the mind, from the distance of this and that, here and there, of the apple held, not eaten. This is what Papa said.

But--

Shhhhhh. No talking.

So we sat. And I imagine how a strange sight it must have been to Grand, to look upon the beach and to see the two of us sitting, rounded backs and elbows perched on bent knees. I remember the wind in my hair and the sand between my toes, the glittering ocean and the warm lapping water tickling my feet as if a game of touch. The longer we sat, and he must have known this, but the longer we sat without speaking, as sun accumulated upon our faces, as birds came and went of wing and foot, as the waters opened and dolphins leaped before healing back into memory, even as the sun's arc ticked passed noon, he must have known I would settle as sediment in a jar, that my waters would clear, that I would see as if I were the ocean and that then I would know, the experience broken on the waves of Grand's voice, the experience beyond, as he had said, words, that I would know as we walked up the path, back to the Villa, to lunch prepared. I think it was his smile and the way he held his hands behind his back and walked with his head down, just smiling; and I felt a warmth as if that smile were the sun and I thought, perhaps it was.