WHEN I WAS OLDER

My watch isn’t right. I left it behind on my suitcase, thrown on the beach, dark and soft in the after-sunset. My phone hasn’t yet had service.

A living thing in me wants me to get up, fix my watch, find service, check who’s been talking to me, find a room. But it is hollow and small, an echo of a far ringing sound; so I leave it. I let myself sink into a dusky jetlag, be caught between something stretched and tired. I wait, try to remember when I was older.

The black water slowly nips at my toes.