“Beach House” by Jack Kimball

The house is white and stands on the beach.
The vacation is over, it’s time to return,
and the car waits impatiently. 
The house is now still. 

That’s the chair I sat with coffee just this morning. 
The sun was there, to the east, not as bright as now. 
I pass and lightly touch the table
where the blue crabs lay on newsprint. 
I can still smell salt, pepper, and the ocean;
taste the memory of crabmeat bursting in my mouth.  

Ah, the porch.  All cleaned up. Scrabble put away. 
The ocean seems empty.   Then I remember it’s Monday.   
Volley ball and sand castles now just memory. 
But those were the places. 
I even go upstairs. I can still make it. 
There’s the nook I read my novel. 
The bedroom where we slept is all made up.
I smooth the quilt. 
Cool breezes still come in from the window. 
The smell of sea water. 
I close it. 
The sound of the waves making infinite breaks dulls.
 
I look down to the shower we washed off sand. 
Hose now neatly tucked. 
The ghost of ourselves walking to the beach. 
Ribbing each member of family. Cutting up.
Laughing in the heat.  Beach chairs and umbrellas.
We were all part of it. 
Briefly. 

I still see the children, the miracle of their beauty. 
The miracle of the smoothness. 
The side of their cheek, the back of their hands. 
All headphones and jogging clothes. 
Chattering like each day follows for effortless eternity.
When did you start calling me sir? 
When did you give sideways glances
about my putting the eggs in the pantry? 

Goodbye house. I’m leaving you
and I want to sit one more time listening. 
I want to thank you before I move on.  
I don’t imagine I will come this way. 
I know I am not part of you anymore.
I see you as a guest would see you.
Observing from the outside,
borrowing and not belonging.
All of time is instant and at the head of a pin.

And now, sooner than I wished,
the impatient call means I must go. 
The road awaits.
So it’s time to think of new business. 
Did we pack right?  Did we forget anything? 
Where will we stop for lunch? 
I will check the map. 
I will make sure my phone is positioned
just right on the dash to check the route. 
I hope the interstate will be clear. 
I like to drive. It seems so restful and it will, after all,
put life’s cares behind.