My father’s mother said the beach would make
her cry. She might have meant that spray would sting
her eyes—or would the timeless breakers bring
to mind old dreams, or some recurring ache?
My own eyes watch the waves and read my book
and sometimes close, as I sit half-reclined,
my skin still smooth where hers was deeply lined,
and wonder what she saw. Perhaps she took
too hard the rude assault of ’38,
when water rose above the Legion Hall;
perhaps the salty reach reminded all
her unshed tears of their collective weight.
Or else the place just made her heart too full—
like mine, a captive to the ocean’s pull.
