Wish You Were Here

Barbara Westwood Diehl

In the postcard city of Wish You Were Here, children in bathing suits

run into the waves. We will never know what happens to them. We will

never know if there are sea nettles or riptides below the waves. In the

city of Wish You Were Here, there are vigilant parents and there is

Coppertone. No one drowns. No one burns. There are foam coolers

filled with Hi-C and sandwiches in wax paper. No one

hungers. No one thirsts.

In the city of Wish You Were Here, bodies are strewn artfully

on striped towels as if left by an ebbing tide to be gathered in colorful

buckets by morning walkers. These morning walkers are the elders of

the city. They walk among the bodies with their faces hidden by wide-

brimmed hats and wraparound sunglasses, skin like the cracked dunes

and whisker grass holding back erosion. They wear cover-ups, so you

will never notice what the sun does. And the sea. How it creeps toward

the pink and green motels, the Majestic and Shangri-La.

If you look closely, you will see a castle made of sand. Its walls guard its

dreams. Its moat keeps vacationers in and monsters out. Tonight, the

tide will wash it away. If you look closely, you will see a distant ship

slipping over the horizon, pulling the city with it. A tired child dragging

his sandy blanket and toys, rubbing his eyes. In the city of Wish You

Were Here, you will not see the castle washed away.