It is in the early morning–not too early–that I sit on the rocks with my feet dangling out over the water and watch the water, watch the clouds lift and descend, the waves lapping lazily up onto the shore, no wind, no wind to speak of at all, the sailboats still in front of the worn painted houses, their distinct shutters and trim, the trees beside the houses sculpted by the wind and water of unstill days. A man sits with a paper filled with words all quốc ngữ to me–he only nods at me. He puts the paper down as I have mine and just looks out at it all, the peacefulness, the nothing. I make my way back across the high rocks back to the beach now, loving this game of how not to drop these words I have just written and of where to put my feet, like a puzzle, like something to fill my attention instead of the routine dull thoughts that sometimes seem more important than exactly this, exactly what is right in front of me right now.
Speak now. Speak. Say the words that define this, that define our lives, our feelings. Speak. And do. Do not wait, as time goes by, and even on still days, what is here today is rare, may float away on less still days and not disappear, not fade, but grow harder and harder to uncover, harder still to grasp.