Half a touch of a fly and half a day gone by asleep either in the sun or on a sunbed under the Persides. Half of a soft laugh can stop a tear. Half a bottle of sun-tan oil, gone – spent on two warm bodies lying half reading, half ringing with a new sound of music; a French, staccato baseline and voice. Half of us are here, half of us by the sea. And where’s the rest of us? I wish I knew where half of that mind is wondering – half its thoughts and half its troubles. The rest I’ll let her keep to herself for herself. for only half of her and I will ever understand. I am comforted and sure that half is just enough. For this half is more than whole, than any other wholesome moment has been in a while.