Memory

Cliffs are nothing more than mounds of dust and rock that broke into at least two pieces.  There must be a word.  Everything should have a word.  But only one.  Things that are called by many names are exhausting.  They are the reason for extinction of the mind.

       But a cliff had two names once, at least.  The cliff.  And.  What was it?

       There were no birds at all.  Just sand catching in the breeze and blowing into our eyes and noses.  Maybe drawn to the warmth.  It felt like there should be crime scene tape or ravens, at least some rain.  Something to symbolize the occasion.

       We got an ultraviolet light from Tom’s place.  He’d bought it to detect traces of cat urine in his carpet.  Supposedly, it makes all sorts of fluids light up.  Not ocean water though.  At least, not that we’d heard of.

       The nothing is what is most confusing.  The staring at the spot and wondering what actually happened there.  What has been lost.

       The night is noisier.  Creatures awaken and all of them want to be known.  Squawking of the birds heading further south, across the border without papers, carrying contraband fruit in their beaks.  A cockroach carries through the air and really is just a beetle with a bad reputation.  She sits down on the rock by my hand and fluffs her wings a few times, a flip-book noise.  She looks much like a firefly but without the benefit of a light to categorize her as beautiful.  

       Tom turns the UV light on.  It glows light purple as the name suggests, and all of the rocks shine bright and white in response.

       “Ew,” Tom says.