I know all there is to know about waves. From the gritty gray shorelines of Northern California I learned their patterns as I learned the familiar sounds of my siblings’ voices. Before I could see them I could sense how hungry the tide was– the hungrier it gets the closer it crawls to the dunes, lapping at the toes of sun-dazed tourists. Waves are the quickly sketched and easily disposed objets d’art of energy; they are wily creatures; they are perfect specimens of the evolution of life. They roll over one another in a seemingly steady dance, but upon further inspection you can begin to decipher where they trip up: racing for the edge, they crash into one another like children gone berserk on candy and too much fun, the result less elegant than that of their calmer selves. From afar we observe the perfection and revel in pattern of the calmer waves. They sport the obsidian sheen of fused glass, and they set every refraction of light on fire. Closer, though. Those others are broken, muddled, looming shells of foam rising to the heavens, clashing, and collapsing over and over, like grief.