Circling Back

There’s a city by the beach where I lost my hand.

Pastel sands under pasty skies.

Gulls, gills, and geckos – caught in lifelong wanderlust.

Pelicans floating – free as runaway grocery bags.

There’s a city by the beach where I lost my hand.

Cracked crustaceans and broken sand dollars.

Storied Spanish mansions –  terracotta tiles gleaning against browning mountain tops.

Palm leaves fluttering – wisps of hair catching wind, grabbing gales.

There’s a city by the beach where I lost my hand.

Bicycles, not briefcases.

Beach trips, not lunch breaks.

Mission steeples, not blue-tinted screens.

It’s been thirteen years since I’ve been back, and yet, I return there every day. 

Fridge magnet pinned.

Keychain dangling.

Coaster crinkling. 

Response emails sent with a little less vigor.

Heart pounding reserved for tragedy — not traffic or ticked off bosses. 

There’s a city by the beach, where I lost my hand. 

It’s an appendage I’d gladly give up again.

The only promotion I’ll ever need.