Photo Story: Senaida
First came the missionaries, their soft limbs sifting debris, their sloughing faces beading saltwater, full of want for remembrance. Gone, the clamor of rebuilding. Like the grey surround, thick and consuming. Water storming seawall, the last time you held my hand. Gone, their provocations and sympathetic refrains.
Senaida, my love. I belong here, among crab husk, sea-glass, and foil—all the things that held, that hold no longer. Useless and humbled. I didn’t tell them this is the spot where we watched the horizon, the first time you held my hand, so sure that closed seam would never crack open.
Truly beautiful