The first year there on the sparkling white-washed beach, when the waves soured from blue to white and dropped their branches over thorny reefs, their fingers like dropped toys I collected as a child, I moaned "I want to go home."

You answered, "Wait." And we went fishing.

When the storms came, mixing and tossing blue sky and dancing clouds into troubled ways, slapping my face into tears and smiles, I said "I want to go home."

You answered, "Wait." And somehow, somewhere I did wait.

Now, half a century later here, on this worn sun-drenched beach I am alone.

Unlike years before, I do not want to go home.