It was on the Santa Monica Pier. A day of crystal clear – asserting the reality of life as the waves lulled and crashed. Someone had caught it. A young man or a teenager, i can’t remember, but he wouldn’t let his prize go. He kept using the edge of his boot in a scraping manner to make the octopus retract its tentacles from the cracks between the boards. Our eyes met. He was thinking. He was horrified. Desperate. An individual. My heart broke.
Like when returning to the tree that held me during the 20 mins extra I had between the time the bus dropped me off at the top of the hill and I when I had to be in class (The old (probably 50) busdriver who tried to take my shirt off after inviting me to his house to meet his daughter and wife. He cooked me breakfast then told me they weren’t really home. I don’t know why he let me go. He even drove me back to the parking lot where I had waited anxiously for him. I was too ashamed to tell my parents. I was 12.) ten years later and finding it cut down. Its welcoming tall, slender, curvy waving roots gone that had spread out at my feet. Murderers.
