sea change

The day before everyone left again, we hiked to the ocean and stood on a cliff's edge to see the last of the whales migrating through.  They were out there where the deep channels flow, where the water looks the greenest.  We stood still and watched, fearing to look away or we'd miss the sudden plume of water, the briefest shadow of a long, dark body.  The sea has cast a spell on me at last.  I feel a companionship with the waves, the way they crash in and then slip away and meld into a grey vastness.  I stood at the rim of the world and let the waves tell my story to God. 

{Come home again soon, my dear ones.}

Keep moving forward, I tell my daughter.  The ones left behind feel the sand start to fall away, feel their bodies start to sink.  I realize this is how the rest of my life will go: that I can look back and become a pillar of salt, ruined and sharp.  Or I can run out into open water and be drenched, soaked to the bone with life.

 Let's run, I say.  

When I am an old woman I will laugh at each new day.