I am eight, and my family
Is on the pier at
The beach. I see the swells
Of Long Island Sound, the
Seagulls emerging from air
And land and sea in a raucous
Chorus. I smell the air wafting
From the cold seawater, and the
Distinctive must of the pier’s old
Weatherbeaten wood. My dad is
Pointing out the islands, and
Grandma is correcting him with
Kind amusement and telling us
Of her own adventures at
Different beaches, in different
Times. And her white glasses
Mimic her white hair as she
Laughs, her purple-weined hand
Clutching a cane, and I
Smile now, in the remembering,
Even though she won’t swim
With us ever again.
