She buries her treasures in plain sight. Cucumbers and peanuts, for later, while the A-listers dine on caviar and baby calves.

Nobody knows about this place, its marble surfaces, the vacuum of kismet contortions, all these fancy words amounts to a place at the table beside royalty’s cast-offs. On the corner of the table, her words scratched out an old-time love poem ending with initials and a heart. Somewhere a maple tree in between Army Barracks cracks a little.

The drive up the Oregon Coast from the filter of a PBS special reminds her of the day he died, in her heart and in real life, although she wouldn’t know for sure until a random search provided all the information she would need to bury another treasure — a year later.

She can still smell the cold rust of etchings against a stark-white cliff, the dress of a thousand childhood summers, besides this rustling, churning, unforgiving Atlantic East of the day he on the edge of 14 brushed her cheek, before the beatings turned her dreams to dust.

He’s lost at sea, his last letter buried in a shoebox full of her own shit.


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