Behind the rock

The kind of ocean view that advertises soap or gets printed on bank checks hung above the couch where you sat, your fingers tracing the pillow's edge as you listened and I talked. I did most of the talking as most of your guests did. Sitting across in the best green chair with the head rest, we'd look out to sea, our eyes tracing the rocks along the edge as we told you that we wanted to become poets, pianists, painters, to dance through life as you did. And you would smile at that, or slip in a pun. Still you'd sit and listen hard to the same surf wearing in and out, the same traffic nine floors down, the same old search at its beginning. And I often wondered why such a brilliant man would choose to spend all this time with us. But you explained yourself one day. You pointed to the biggest rock inside the plastic frame and asked as I was getting up to leave, what I thought that I would find if I could see what was just behind.

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