Talking of Beaches with Linda
Speaking of water—why Atlantic City? Though Jersey beaches are lovely,
compared to Brooklyn. What do we have—Coney Island, Brighton, dirty sand
full of seagull bones and used condoms. Steve said that's where you washed up.
I try to find the beauty in it—your jet hair splayed out on white grains. What else
can I do? At least you were in the paper—unidentified white female.
Where was your nameplate necklace, the one I gave you for your Sweet Sixteen?
The night you came to my house drunk at one a.m. is when I started to worry
about you—so free and wild, the girl I always wanted to be. I hope you had
wonderful times all over the world, Linda. I hope you sailed on rich men's yachts
in Greece and drank Cristal in Alabama with a hot hick, instead of Southern Comfort
with neighborhood boys who bet a buck on who could touch your breasts.
I always knew it was about acceptance. It should have been your beautiful smile
or silky hair like a Chinese doll. Steve didn't say how or why, just "she washed up
on the beach—but she was a druggie prostitute." As if that "but" was a good enough
reason for you to be dead. I wish you would have called me—your mother said
she didn't have your number anymore, that you were disowned. I imagine us
at Brighton Beach; pepper and egg sandwiches, lemonade and baby oil to get
our tans. We would have talked about the future—husbands, children, white houses
with picket fences, dogs and gardens, and I would have braided your lovely hair
and told you how special you were and maybe you would have swirled your hands
through the sand, feeling beautiful and worthy and thought yes, that could be. Maybe
that Brooklyn beach sand would have been enough.
© 2004 Lori Williams
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