Mango idled for hours sitting in the sand and scrunching his toes. Listening to the warm wind hoot in his ears. No contemplation. Grief had stolen everything.
Yesterday his father had come down to the shore and invited him to the Dutchman for lunch. He could see that Henri Bertrand was lonely.
"I hate that big house, Father."
"Yes. I know your mind."
"But you do nothing."
"What do you mean? What is it you wish me to do. Rewrite the past?"
Mango fell silent, wishing the scoundrel would go away.
"All right. I'll go."
*
The tide had risen and waves were drenching the seat of his pants. Swirling around his ankles.
His notebook was completely ruined. No loss, he thought. The one poem in it had been embossed within him before he jotted it down.
Someone was approaching him. Walking through wavering bands of heat. Hannah Ramirez.
Sight of her was like rain upon a desert flower.
"Hello, Mango."
"Sit with me."
"Let's move to dry land, darling."
They sat side-by-side holding hands.
"I really miss him, Hannah."
"Of course you do. I miss him too."
"I have no new poetry in me."
"Give it time."
Mango fell silent. Then, feeling her warmth, he asked, "How did he make love to you?"
"With his whole being."
"With me he held back. Keeping something. What was it?"
"Joy."
*
Holding her sandclogs in one hand and her straw bonnet in the other, Hannah balanced her way along the Stinger Tail like a high-wire artist.
Mango called from behind: "Cover your feet!"
"I have tough feet. It's easier barefoot. Ouch!"
On Spanish Mound amid slanted coconut palms there was a fenced grave site. Inscribed on the memorial stone: LOVED BY THOSE WHO KNEW HIM. "May this land remain uncorrupted." Robert Sinclair Radcliff/1944-1999.
*
Today they would celebrate his birthday with a summer sausage and a bottle of summer wine. Bringing up the rear with the picnic basket, Mango's head brimmed with poetry.
"Hannah! Hannah!"
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