this chianti is thin, another sad red circle at the bottom of the glass.

i hear the ocean out there. lila is making a face out of her olives and sam is systematically kicking my chair leg. my phone already vibrated with three new disasters from work since we sat down. i can feel it all bunching into a hot knot behind my ribs.

then i look at her.

across the wreckage of breadsticks, she's just watching me. she sees it. her eyes hold the whole damn story. this fucking chaotic, holy mess is the whole point.

her hand finds mine on the tablecloth and her thumb makes a small circle over my knuckles.

carpe fucking diem, right.

the salt air is thick. their laughter is thin against the crash of the waves. i see my wife lift our daughter over a coming wave, their heads thrown back. a pure joy i can only witness. the weight sits in my chest. the brooklyn rent, the invoices, the constant count. my feet sink into the wet sand. i do it for this moment.

my thumb digs into the sand and finds something smooth. a shard of sea glass, milky green, its edges worn down. tossed and beaten for years in the dark water. it was once sharp and broken. now it has this form. i close my fist around it. i am being tumbled too. this hardness is part of the making.

the moon pulls the worry in my blood.
my bones are iron bars.
my skin is turning to rock.

i come home and they feel the cold of this new material.

i am becoming the wall for the house itself.
i stand at the edge of our life.
the world's noise and sharp edges break against me.
that pressure makes a man dense.
it makes him silent.

my silence is the deep quiet of a mountain protecting a valley.
i am the doorframe holding back the wind.
i am the threshold.
you cross over me into peace.

this is my love made heavy.