PROMPT: "There was something incredibly moving about witnessing the person you love interact with their whole family. The project of determining similar features, the language they have for things, turns of phrase. Things you thought were only theirs turned out to be derived from generations of relatives sharing movement and intonation.” —Zoe Whittall, Holding Still For As Long As Possible

The wind plunged into the night blue silk,

sending ripple chasing after ripple,

each wave owned their own song...,

a song from their fathers,

but reshaped in their own.

Molded in experience

and love.

Preserved.

The silver notes praise the

eminent beginning that pulled the waves,

tossing each one over,

overlapping one another and swallowing them,

smaller and smaller,

but yet, still there.

Still moving

from the horizon to

the golden earth,

the beach's sands.

Pulling with them a trail,

trails of smiles familiar,

of smells, and

gestures

known only

to those who witness

the sea

and her movements.

The waves gather still,

Falling and rolling,

onwards until

they find a pair of feet...

...to kiss.