from Nicaragua

Yesterday we walked the triumphant 500 meters to the next beach over from the taco shop, where the green and pink plastic chairs are warped from melting under tropical sun. Where bad commercial reggae is pouring out in concrete gravel from the small blown out amp, which is semi-buried in sand. Past the taco shop where the gringos are woofing down the over-priced fish tacos in their newly  bubblegum skin-suits. The plastic tables they sit at are littered with brown beer bottles and constellations of cilantro-flecked tomato and onion bits.


We walked past the local boys playing soccer on the pebbled beach, past the textured elbows of the tide pools (hundred thousand barnacle graves crunching under our sandals), past the sounds of tourists and tourism. The sight of the cove was born head first, so that its face was pressed up against us as soon as we turned the corner of the cliff. Trees grow out of the sand, their hips tucked underground like a magic trick. We settled under one, thinly leafed, aching for water--laid out our cheap colorful towels under the meager square of shade.


Mariah hangs up our packs and our shirts on a naked branch, digs our blue water bottle into the sand between our towels, and then falls asleep instantly. Her hands spread softly across her long stomach, her wet hair drying in tight salty curls. I watch her, read a page of my best seller, stare out at the blue curling over itself on the shore, and then watch her some more. When she wakes up, she immediately checks to see if she needs more sunscreen.  She sits up and I notice a place where she has missed applying her first coat, because she has a new perfectly shaped cherry wing coming out of her harp bowed scapula. Without thinking, I run my forefinger through its delicate feathers and say ' you grew a pink wing in your sleep.'