It’s easy to understand: the gravel beneath my feet are the shredded remains of a child I never could be. When we looked around curiously, you noticed the holographics of the water, the sky, and far more interestingly, the green-and-red abandoned towel. It’s a reminder — you’re a reminder — that we’re never going to be able to bury a slightly smaller version of ourselves, alone, in that gritty sand. This awful thunder, and the nearshore burrow that used to be so beautiful in the sun. You looked at me and told me that this dark cloudy beach is the reason why you don’t call me down for dinner anymore. It took me a minute (my legs stopped swinging back and forth in the cold water, my fingers ceased their incessant tapping on the sand), but as the inky waves soaked my jeans, I wanted to tell you that despite all that, I still eat dinner. I couldn’t say that, so I said what I knew: that the lotus root in the fridge didn’t ask to be unceremoniously discarded. I’m sorry for getting the expired ones from Lotte; I can still see the roots lying on that towel, all separated and rotting. After that, the waves submerged me to my chin, and I saw it, I saw everything— the dinner that I cooked a couple weeks ago, the wings of clouds, and my eyes in the rocks.