Full Circle

Today I came full circle. Upon the sand I saw my footsteps, except they were much smaller and did not press against the earth so hard. As if winged, carried by bright red balloons, those strides skipped and hopped. They were singing, the purring of a house cat, as nimble as a dream; pillowed on cotton, a rubbery bounce like the smack of a handball; such was the journey, because I came full circle today, under the same sun and sky, the same blue, only deeper, a quick dive beneath the sea, long and steady strokes miles down until that graveled blue bleeds off black — the same, and I tried to copy myself, laughing at how ridiculous I must seem, what fun to repeat in rhymes, what sorrow to have come full circle, to have retraced my steps; overlap, baby waves on shores of a bathtub sink, spheres of bended light to linger on a smile. Such memories only arrive when the moment is gone, such joy alive in a faded death. I trace the line from start to finish. It makes not a sound, as silent as my own shadow, come to creep from behind when I least suspect.