Yesterday Morning

In my perfect sleep I am humming, my whole body floating in a mist of gray clouds, maybe a little pink back lighting. Morgan Freeman comes walking through the fog and asks, "What's that you're humming?" and I say something profound like, "The song of life," or "The tune of my soul at rest," or "The Beach Boys." He smiles and nods along, his gray afro swishing like maracas in time with the tune of my soul.

Below me there are waves, and I know when I kick on my surfboard my silhouette looks like a seal to the hungry sharks below. But in this state, in these clouds, above those waves, a shark could bite off my whole leg and I might just be satisfied to bleed out.

Somewhere along the line, the wet corpse of that girl they found in the ravine by my elementary school comes into view. The teachers made us stay inside the day they pulled her up, but my mom let me watch it on the news later. She had blond hair. I tell her, "I don't want to see you again right now." She kisses me on the forehead and leaves, and the scent of the salt water is stronger.

All five senses are in tune here: sight, sound, smell, soul and sameness.

The sense of sight; I see nothing but what comes through the fog. Like beetles crawling out of cotton candy.

The sense of sound; humming in time with the ocean beating endlessly on the shore, driving particles of sunken ships up under my toenails.

The sense of smell; it is clean, open air. It is what the gulls are squawking about.

The sense of soul; I am.

The sense of sameness; we are.