Twilight on the Oregon Coast

A temperate scene, vague memories of the parsed sky, looking up from the forest floor, at the spaces in between branches, where the sky peeks through before the clouds come.

You stand up, moving slowly back to the house that overlooks the ocean.

Back at the house, you move through each room, feeling the life that has lived there. You try to grab hold of some recollection of what happened in this room, the times shared in that bed, whose imprint can still be seen on the floor.

A gust of wind passes above, and you feel the weight of the loss, right at that moment, like you were too stunned to admit to it before.

And there it is, a small Buddha statue still propped up on the stool in the kitchen, where you now sit, staring out at the sea. With its diurnal nature, you feed off of the energy provided when the tide goes out, then in.

You can see why people move out here, abandon life in the cities, and find solace and peace by the ocean.

But winters were always hard, but this winter will be brutal. Vodka seems to go well with this, ice and Vodka, white walls, listening to the twinkling of the ice cubes.


You feel like a ghost, all throughout this week when she left, still noticing the mark on the wall where your wedding picture once sat, comfortable and secure.

It’s not all bad. There’s a typewriter on your desk (one of the only items of furniture still left in the home) and inside of it is a sheet of ivory paper with fourteen words that describe the way you feel.