It wasn’t all about my father anymore. Words slipped off my tongue likes waves caress a filthy shore, gathering debris…drawing that undesirable waste out from where littering children had left it forgotten…drawing it into itself just to, later, spill it out onto some unfamiliar shore…Waves crash upon cliff sides as if they harbor some almost completely incomprehensible desire to crawl higher than their origin…to escape what has always been familiar. The passion that drives these waves in their repetitive efforts sends all too often unperceivable cries into the wind…the sound of waves crashing…a comfort that’s only what it is because we fail to acknowledge that its real comfort lies in the fact that it’s soothing because that faint whistle of the water through our wind echoes our own desperation….reminds us that we’re not alone in crashing for years upon the same shore before we find means to rise higher.