Sin Fronteras Spring 2017 Sin Fronteras Spring 2017 | Page 68

The Man by the Ocean
Mariana Durán
He lives in the last house in Tojinbo,
Before the boardwalk turns into a barren cliff.
His face has more wrinkles than the cracked mountains,
And his house overlooks the tall dark waves that splash
Furiously against the rocks,
A home that has withstood many storms and hurricanes.
He walks across the whole town just
To come to mass on weekends,
I’ve seen him wake up early,
Whenever I’m fixing my bicycle outside.
I’ve seen him walk an hour before,
Seen the stray cats brush their
Shabby coats against his legs,
As he smiles and asks them
How their days are going,
And scratches the space between their ears.
They follow him meowing,
As he heads towards the white church,
Still telling the cats new stories about his wife,
And about how he’ll get to see her soon.
The man always gets there
Five minutes before the ceremony starts.
Just in time for a boy to stand up
And yield to him his seat.
He brings his rings and cards to the ceremony,
And after it finishes, he does magic tricks for the young children.
He’ll remove his fingers one by one, and
Separate his teeth from his mouth.
He’ll bring thick strands of rope,
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And dare them to try and untie the fisherman’s knots
That were such a constant of his youth.
Impossible knots that he somehow
Can tie and unravel with closed eyes.
The young ones, they follow him around
All Sunday morning,
Asking for just one more disappearing act,
As they try to figure out how he did it.
On Saturday afternoons,
When older kids hang out by the cliffs,
I’ll see him reading a book and
Listening to the waves crash furiously,
And sometimes, someone will sit beside him
And they’ll talk for a while, exchanging stories,
Laughing and whispering and smiling.
And when the cloudy day turns stormy,
They’ll all walk him to his house
Before leaving for their own.
Sometimes, I feel like the man just
Looks for someone to listen to him.
He has too much life,
And too few people to share it with.
He still has to find people to remember him when he’s gone.
He feeds the white seagulls
Early in the morning each day.
He carries a plastic bag of fish scraps with him,
And they all huddle around on his porch and squawk
As they wait for the man
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