“Getting high’s easy. Getting drunk’s fine.
It’s the getting by that’ll get a soul down.
So if you need me, know that I’m bleeding
Somewhere alone in some coastal town…”
_____
Fifth of May, the poppies were in bloom; and they walked together the coastal hills in scent of the sea they could not see. Hillsides awake in the green and golden orange of the poppies after rain and Pacific cool cradled in the hills.
They walked in the sun, ascending and falling switchbacks and windings of the trails—in the open wide and, too, into groves of low, wide-shading trees.
Sun on her shoulders, black tank for top, she tanned and burned over open skin; tinge of pink that would either red or tone into summer tan.
First-season sun on fair of skin was anybody’s guess. He chose and guessed her tan, not wishing her pain of burn and loving the tone and freckled show that became of her sun-changed skin.
Fall of sun, they mirrored path in leave of the hills in western fall and end at Malibu beach; sun-fire set and sky of glory over rolling, breaking waves that crashed in foam-wash sooth.
Tan lines on her shoulders showed, white of the tank top’s wide to narrow of bikini she wore then; she beautiful in all her covered and open showing.
Song arose in mind, and he couldn’t answer why. He only knew that it was there:
“Getting high’s easy. Getting drunk’s fine.
It’s the getting by that’ll get a soul down.
So if you need me, know that I’m bleeding
Somewhere alone in some coastal town…”
He never smoked, eight years since last he drank and, on that night, she was there. It was the getting by, that’s what killed him—or almost did, quiet and private misery of listlessness.
Then something changed.
Life.
He lived his dreams as they came to him, which were mostly storied words.
It was where he wrote his peace, created what was not yet but in time and faith became.
He no longer bled. He was no longer alone. As in darkest night, in Pacific eve before glory of setting sun—she was there.
Sun fell, night became. Last listen of the ocean’s break, they departed from the sands and drove again for the coastal hills.
Walking trail in night, they came to cabin the woods.
In open hearth, they lit a fire of gathered kindling in understory of around.
To heaven-stars, scent of sea, fire of hearth and souls between—they made love to the Fifth of May.