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.