summer breeze

sitting on my bluff today, watching the sun set into a line of fluorescent smog (or whipped mountain top), my toes digging into powdered dirt and sand while my hands feel the bulge of dinner and overindulgence in too many cups of milk and hibiscus tea settling in my tummy

the air is perfect, the breeze on the edge of this cliff smells and tastes like salty sea air, if i close my eyes or unfocus them on a distant point in the mountains beyond the city, i forget that i am not on the keel of some tall ship, the gentle rocking of the earth below me like the pulse of soft sea waves at night

it's a feeling i wish i could knit into a summer sweater. i don't have much use for sweaters in the heat of summer, but sometimes a sweater is just what you need, you know? the interwoven tangled wooliness reminds me of hands, delicate fragile veiny old woman hands, remind me of my grandmother and toggle buttons and pastel pink rabbit hair yarn, and remind me of the sea, somehow. i think it goes like this: when i was little, i was fascinated and horrified by the story of the Titanic. i was terrified of the sea and of boats and of drowning, i imagined sinking - my lungs filling with water - was the worst way to die. but then i insert a small pink sweater into the scenario, and there's warmth, there's temperature control. the sweater has pockets for little hands (somewhere there are mittens waiting to be matched) and a hood with ears, and the smell of home and dry coziness. i imagine floating on icy water all night waiting to be rescued while my grandmother wraps me in layers and layers of hand-knit sweaters, and it's like she's building me an island beneath my feet to stand on.

i don't need a life preserver; i just need something soft and warm.