Where the Waves Would Break

Sweet moon, may I tell you a story?

I used to take my kids to the marina at low tide.

We'd hop across tiny streams in the rocky sands

as we worked our way toward where the waves would break

and searched the horizon for orca whales.

We'd watch for falcons and eagles,

seastars and crabs,

tell octopus stories

and imagine them swimming just beyond where we were.

"I wish I had eight arms," I would say,

enough to hold on to each of my children

with two arms left for seashells.

On those days,

I would tell them stories of someone deep under the sea,

filling an imaginary belly with the water from the shore,

holding it all in just long enough

to give a brief glimpse of what lies beneath the waves,

and give us a chance to dig in the wet sand and rocks.

*

Dear moon, may I confess something?

I wasn't ready to give you credit.

It was more fun to make up stories,

to watch my children's eyes light up

as I shared brilliant images

of giant bellies full of water,

making space for us to explore.

I wasn't ready

to honor the magic you perform with such grace,

the way you pull the sea back so gently,

like a mother turning down blankets on a bed,

inviting her children to gather

so they may share time and stories

before drifting off to sleep.

*

Precious moon, may I ask for forgiveness?

I'm no less enamoured of your magic,

no less in awe of your grace,

but my days on the shore are less frequent now.

My children are grown,

less interested in trips to the beach at low tide,

less interested in my stories of water-filled bellies,

less interested in gathering on the shore,

searching for orcas

and telling octopus stories.

"I wish I had eight arms," I still say,

only wishing now they were long enough

and not so tired

to still reach my children,

and hold them while we dig in the sand,

searching for treasures together

along the shore.