Arielle Silver

Cliff Side

 1.

Echoed against the cliff walls of the ragged coastline, the bark of two elephant seals. Aaark, one calls, then moans like the creak of old redwood. Even through closed lids: the periwinkle grey of dawn. I open my eyes at the fifth cheer-up-up from a nameless bird in dialogue with its mate. A moment later, my husband opens his.  We  stare  wide-eyed across the pillows. We traveled nine hours to perch on this cliff far from the segmented lives that fracture us, and spoke of nothing timely but the shortening blue shadows and play of sun along the grizzled backs of  the  golden  central  coast  hills.  Now, in  the  briny blue morning, we shove away the flannel sleeping bag and crawl out of the tent zipping our jeans. I balance on a weathered log; he stands on a rock. We survey the morning palette: sky against sea, dusty rose and slate grey, echoes of elephant seals and  the crash of waves.

2.

Black sky and a thick sheet of Milky Way  flips us face up on the campsite picnic table.   My hips stack one over the other; my belly touches my husband’s ribs. I lay my  head on  his arm. We spin inward to the black hole at  the center of the galaxy.  I search the thick  for constellations:   Cassiopeia;   a dipper;   Orion:   I recognize only the belt.   He hunts  satellites and shooting stars. Make a wish, one of us says. We go silent. The night pulses with cricketsong. This cusp of October is summer’s last hurrah, and the crickets in the chaparral  cannot  be  still.  Chirp,  they cry.   I am  lost  for  a breath.  Then,  like  a  prayer: 
Keep this man healthy; take care of my man. When,  I  wonder,  did  I  begin  to  pray? We’re moving so fast, he says, Why don’t we feel a breeze?

3.

The  starscape  is  better  for  the  moon’s  absence,  but  the  trails  are  dark. The beam of my
flashlight  hits  a  couple  stargazing  and  huddled  among  the  sage  and  chaparral.  I point it
down  and  it  flashes  over  the  neighboring  campsite’s  tent,  chair, and half-read paperback.
We   follow   the   trail  and  again  lie  on  the  picnic  table  in  wonder  of  the  galaxy.   A  tiny 
satellite   travels   nearly   indiscernibly  amid  the  fixed  luminous  stars.   I  stare  till  my  eyes
cross,  then  leave  my  husband  on  the  picnic table and crawl into the flannel. Mid-night, the
elephant  seals  become   raucous,   the  crickets  are  mad;   we  feign  sleep.  In  the  morning
bathroom, the woman from the campsite says her name is Tian. I ask if she often camps alone
already  daydreaming  of  my  future  solo  trips.  I am  not strong,   she says.   She  means  the 
tent,  and  I nod  because  she looks  two-thirds  my  size. She had bought it with her husband,
but  he  died,   was  killed,  six months ago.  I dry my hands.  I wish  her well.   What  else  can I
do?   My  husband  waits  with  our  bags.  Outside,  he  looks  out  at  the  slip  of moon fading 
over  the  eastern  mountains.  I  wrap  his  ribcage  in  my  arms  and say another prayer in the
brightening day.

4.

The Pacific swallows the sun in a blaze of hunger; sand pipers lift in formation; a pelican skims for dinner; a dog searches the tide for a ball; a young man asks, “Will you take a photo of me and my future wife?” They are backlit by the sinking sun, but my husband takes three shots. They laugh, we wish them well, and we return to our king bed, cotton sheets, and the thunder of waves from the beach below. Five paddles, medium speed, throw rhythmic blurs across the bluing hotel ceiling. On the table, a plate of brie, apples, and crackers, three-quarters gone; the sauvignon blanc, a third. The ceiling fan whirs; we are happily in love. It whirs again; our tectonic plates shift. A fault line of empty sheets divides us. I blame him. I listen to him sleep. He blames me. He listens to me sleep. I  don’t know what causes us to crumble at our edge. We dream of waking and remaking love. The Pacific rolls in and out. At dawn, we glue ourselves back together.

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Arielle Silver writes stories and songs. Her music has been licensed internationally for film and television, and her prose has recently appeared or is forthcoming in Under The Gum Tree, Brevity, Gulf Stream, From Sac, and Lilith Magazine. She is at work on a memoir about love and step/mothering, and an historical novel set in the bebop and burlesque world of New York in the 1940s.