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When the oceans and their waves bow at the feet of the King, it’s actually called a tide. The pull of the world on the waves is a tide. That’s a fact.

I never quite understood how the persistent draw of the moon, that magnificent, invisible string of force—gravity—between planets and celestial orbs pulled the water up out of the sea in swells like that. Neither of us did. So we sat on a sand dune at sunset, a storm sneaking around the corner, and looked up tides on 4G internet as any twenty-first century couple would naturally do.

Granules of sand, the dust of worn rocks from centuries of wind and storm and surf nestled between my toes and hid in the pockets of my jeans. His elbows around my knees pulled me snug to his chest. The phone searched academic websites and told us all about the tides. I couldn’t pronounce centrifugal, the force that makes the tides even on both sides of the earth. I said sentry-fyoogal, tripping over my young tongue, and he said centri-fi-gull, both talking about this beautiful balance that the Earth spins itself into while we sleep and eat and drive around.

Just the beginning, out here at dusk, tangled up, of asking questions for a lifetime. Of breathing life into metaphors from broken pieces of stone tablets with touch screens and wireless signals.

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