“RIP CURL WATCHES GREAT WET SUITS TOMMY BAHAMA”

 

That’s what the sign said.

It was on a building here, next to this pretty store that I like to go into.     I wanted to take a picture of the sign,  but it was lit up too brightly in the dark night, and my camera didn’t know how to compensate.   It couldn’t understand the lighting, just as I couldn’t understand the words.

“RIP CURL WATCHES GREAT WET SUITS TOMMY BAHAMA”    –   I don’t know what that sign is saying.   I don’t even know if it’s saying something legal.   Or decent!

I sat looking at it, staring out the window of the little seafood restaurant, not making much sense of the sign or of anything else.   I know things.  I know what happened to our family this week,  but I don’t understand that either. . . .   but what do I really know?

I came “home” –

My “home away from home”  this week.  Sat on that sofa and moped for a while.      The doorway to the left of the table looks out into the black night and the sound of the surf pounds into the room;   too loud to hear the radio,  to loud to think.

I went outside there, stood right by the big waves, in the dark night.  All I could see was the tops of the waves as they broke and the white foam rushed towards me,  landing on the wet sand and  then gets blown all over by the strong, warm  winds.   18 to 24 knots, they said.   But what do I know?  I think in m.p.h.

I took a little flashlight with me because my sister says little creeping things come out of the sand at night, like crabs and sand fleas.    I’d  shown the flashlight at my bare feet once in a while, but didn’t see any.     But what do I know?     Everything looks creepy by flashlight on the beach.

I went out to think about things:  about death;  about my Mom being dead now;  about family life and being an individual.  But I didn’t come up with any thoughts.  Just stared at the huge dark ocean.

What do I know?

 

I think TOMMY BAHAMA is up to no good.