Someone left a postcard on your grave.
"Wish you were here," it said, blue ink smeared by liquid -- rain, spit, perhaps tears. "Wish you were here, in sunny California."
A raucous green jay announced the delivery, a bulldog of a bird far north of his normal range. Three staccato screeches, followed by two, then another three. Grating noise incongruent from so elegant a bird, harsh enough to cut over the sound of the wind chimes hanging from the mesquite above your headstone.
Mom chose your spot, relegated you here beneath the unruly mesquite you loved to hate, the one shady place on the entire 12 acres you stole from her. A bully with a pen and a plan that never came to be, you ended up here in a beat up RV, drawing water from a hose and hoping the well would never run dry -- but it did.
The Gulf wind blows southeast to northwest, keeps the chimes singing, mesquite whispering, pushing the sandy soil into minor dunes, piling against your headstone.
Different sand than California. A world away from California.
Who wished you were there, in California?
About the Creator
I'm a recovering artist in Austin, Texas. Stoic student, mystic, writer, poet, guitarist, father, brother, son, friend. I am an eternal soul living a human experience. Part of that experience is working through my stuff by making art.