Still Here

I wake before the house, pad barefoot to my favourite seat on the front porch, and allow myself to be still. Pencil in my hands. An imaginary smudge of ash I never wash away on my fingertips. The ocean is a few streets over, close enough to hear on windy days. I go there often. I walk in until my ankle burns and the water says enough for today.

In front of me: Sky. Possibilities as broad as the horizon.

I inhale.

It smells like salt, and smoke, and something new.