Splash. The gregarious laughter of the two-year old evaporates into the dense mid – July sky while the colossal waves augment with every “oooh” and “aahhh” of the passengers. Silhouettes of the guardian edifices begin to dance and swirl to the batucada of splashing cobalt drops while I stand frozen on the dilapidated wood deck. Oblivion. Remembrance. Which is it? I look up once more and ingest it again and again – Miesian rectitude playing with the shimmer and brilliance of the mid-summer sun, seduced by the passing waves and once more reclaiming its forgotten glory. The laughter and cries of the two-year old encapsulated in each drop of liquid, the incarcerated hopes waiting to be released like the incandescent glimmer of those almond eyes. If only time could indeed be lava, if only Dali could freeze that mid-summer sun into a sunken canvas.