When I hang his shirts next to mine in the closet, there are surf brands, the same ones he wore when he had hair bleached white by the sun and waves. When his skin was tan and his mouth tasted like wintergreen gum and saltwater. When I spread my beach towel with arms wide and the tradewinds swooped down and lifted the corners from my fingertips like a magic carpet and I would nestle my body in hot white sand and lift my eyes to the sea and she would offer the lip of a wave for his surfboard and …
a student of grace, seeking wonder, becoming fluent in the language of hope
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