![]() Here, Portland not here, the Southwest Community Center, specifically. If the mythos is to be believed-and as far as any nonmagic people are concerned, most of it isn’t-I should be able to hear my grandmother here. ![]() The story goes that sirens originated by the water, that once we used our calls to damn seamen, and that when we die, our voices return to the sea. ![]() The problem is I don’t know exactly what I’m listening for. It was one of the first things I learned when I finally found “the network,” so despite my lack of results thus far, I close my eyes now too. It’s never made a difference but it’s part of the ritual, and I guess it must mean something that I did it even before I knew there was a way for living sirens to listen for their dead. ![]() I always close my eyes, and today’s no exception. ![]() I’d stand on the cold sand, burrowing my toes beneath the surface as though there’d be some warmth there, and I’d listen. Back home I went to the beach on more than one cloudy day. It feels redundant to be at the pool on a rainy Saturday, even though it’s spring, and even though it’s Portland, but maybe I’m just more of a California snob than I want to be. ![]()
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