I sit, hugging my knees on the concrete, the hardness raw with discomfort. I am here but not here, not wanting to be part of the bustle that isobars around me and flows past in a stream of busy-ness. Unusual and so ignored, somebody-else’s problem hunched on the uncaring pavement.
They all pass in oblivious haste, but as I blink open teary eyes, I can just see, over the lip of the overflowing rubbish bins: a pebbled beach, and beyond that, a watery cobalt expanse that reaches to the sky and seeks out all the edges, that rocks back and forth just like I do, sounding like the breath of home.
©Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2015