I counted the seconds
between each wave,
how you do when
you check your pulse
with your fingers.
I stood and counted
and did nothing with this information -
how the waves pushed
and pulled looser pebbles
further into the lake,
like a hand
raking through hair -
knowing these things
just to know them
without merit
or consequence.
But I memorized these things
as if I’d be quizzed at any moment
and had to know exactly
how the waves, like bed sheets,
fold over themselves,
when they’re strong enough,
or the numbers I counted earlier —
between each wave —
and how that number changes
on a windier day
or colder season.
I saved these details in the same place
I kept all things I’m afraid of forgetting —
not the space in a book
saved for underlining,
but a white wooden shelf
alongside dusty photo albums
and plastic trophies.
I added the waves,
the pebbles, and the sand
to this shelf of facts that
I keep just in case -
wedged between the
number of cracks
on a particular sidewalk,
and the names of dogs
I’ll only meet once.
And just like those things,
I’ll leave them here,
at the beach,
on the shelf,
when I walk
from wet sand to dry sand
to put my shoes back on -
and maybe years from now,
I’ll revisit the shelf
like books I’ve read before -
now a seasoned note-taker,
clipboard always ready,
paying extra attention
to the usual green
of a forest trail,
or geese
that look no different
than any other geese.
