We lie at the foot of the dunes, where once we scratched for perfect fossils. The easterly whips spray across the darkening cove. Casuarinas and bed-bushens show us which way to lean towards the future. Once you asked your mother if we are afraid of clouds. A small boy negotiating all climates. On the island, only clouds carry time.

We look out beneath the cliffs into inky waves, where baby neon jellyfish make drifting punctuation points. Each one stands for a moment in our ten-year ocean. The time you met me in Paris. The letter on the table. Or when you told me Eva died. Breezes from history freeze my blood, melted by your breath on my throat. Softly, we make a child, while from the cliffs, my father's ashes rain down on us, soft as silk.

On April 11^th at 6 p.m. you marry me. I wear dark-blue velvet, hoping its softness will be contagious. My heart murmurs in your presence, as if inside me a community of parts gossip at my undeserved good fortune. I watch your noble face and think of how, at twenty-one, distance trembled between us. Now, your glimpse is me. By the vase of lilacs, your skinny mother looks everywhere but at us. Love trips her up. In the crowd, helium faces dance in recomposed time, neighbouring chapters out of order. I skip ahead and feel the future's metronome tick inside me, while words cross over us like clouds.