There came a time when he sat alone on the beach,
and reminisced at the sweet smell of toffee apples.
"I know him well, but I wish he’d call
to kiss me on the cheek,"
she believed would cure
the muscle tightness
of her shoulders.
She remembers herself with Ethan, on the same beach,
still a child, writing each other’s names on sea sand,
her name washing out by the waves;
his name flowing into the sea.
On the horizontal side of the river bank, near George,
a fisherman casts his salmon fishing line.
Her eyes follow the aeroplane going,
above, to his left.
She sees him pulling a taut fishing line,
anchoring little Ethan’s shirt, years old.
Seven years old to be precise, was far too long,
to reach him: France; was far too precarious,
of his disappearance, to learn of in Rome, Italy,
Russia, Egypt and then in Morocco.
He reminds himself, of the time he told me of his dreams,
hopes, faith or fate; and how at 15, his image
had been tarnished, by molesters and false dreamers,
his socks and shoes thrown at my face.
The lost picture of his boyish face,
(recaptured by a fishing line)
was all George could console Laura with,
reeling her away from his unfound body.
Lights, camera, and action, he stands,
8.1 meters tall, rugged and hair back,
he takes centre stage to walk the ramp.
We smile to re-take the photograph
lost in translation of my childhood memory.