Sea Change

Nothing of him that doth fade,
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.
-The Tempest by William Shakespeare

He made the case for the state of missing.
The lost and disjointed and I nodded.
I know a thing or two about that.

I have stood on the railing of passenger ships
and stared down into the water.
That is where things get lost.

And on occasion, found again, washing to shore,
running right up to your feet.
Only what comes back rarely seems to be what was missing.
Like a bird molting feathers.

“I’m looking forward to the warmth,” he said.
And as the sky darkens overheard, I am too. I tell him it must
be a sign of age or possibly a sea change. A full fathom five, right?
There is yet another storm swirling out over the water

and it is making it’s way here.
But right now we talk about baseball and light jackets at night.
We plan trips to Coney Island to see the Cyclones.
I think about what the sea smells like in summer.

I have to remind myself that this is what matters.
Not the other. I have to remember to focus and sit still.
It will be like this for awhile longer.
We both know that.
But it’s easier if no one says it.

No one knows, right?
Just no one knows.