He could be thought an ugly man. The right reach of his face between nostril and lip pull up in a jeer so constant that even his smiles take on the look of tongued battle between molar and seed. On this side, too, a bag of skin hangs below his eye, bloated with the insults and complaints his lips have held back for so much lost time.
He is a sailor who never learned that saying our goodbyes we are also always declaring certain hellos. He is a sailor who forgets just how much he remains with those he continually leaves behind. He is a sailor with back turned to the wonders of the open.
But one would be wrong to see this alone. For, despite his well-plaited and rough-burnished husk, his flesh remains as soft and unprotected as some sun-warmed peach. His hands are firm in purpose, securing the lines of cared-for lives without question, without invoice. His chin sometimes laughs with warm bellows that send children deeper into their frolicsome play. And, more than most, his saddened eyes open, like some unsought miracle, unto the tears of things.
He could be seen as an ugly man, but he is not. Like so many, he's simply a sail or two or three or ten away from learning how to sail home. And, when he does, he will at great long last greet those who remain with the living goodbye that is caught beneath his longing, still supple skin.
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