Tuesday 200 — #74

Settling down on Brighton Beach, Mark rocks from side to side, stones shifting to support him. Legs crossed, eyes softly focused beyond the breakers. Cyan mornings are meant to be savored, like weekends in bed with a new lover. Breathe in. Breathe out. One, two, three, four. Two decades of meditation and he still begins by counting. One breath after the other, like waves rolling in, disappearing into parentheses of foam.

Memories of a coastal village he’d unexpectedly visited freshman year. An energy between boys sparking excitement and fear. A used bookstore’s copy of “The Best Little Boy in the World.” Slipping it into his pocket, too ashamed to carry anything about fags to the bulldog behind the till.

Back to the breath. Releasing road trips up the Cape. Sweaty, sandy sex in dunes with men he’d never seen who tasted so familiar. Meeting Ryan that perfect August Tea. New Year’s in the fixer-upper that became a hospice. Scattering Ryan’s ashes in Herring Cove.

One, two …

Meditating tears. Not an ocean, barely a puddle. Just enough to discredit The Cure.

Boys do cry.

It’s ghosts who don’t cry. But sometimes they float into your practice, and beckon you home.

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