Along the gray-fogged sea, my steps, appearing,disappearing. Mom and Dad recline on bentchairs, not speaking. I’ve run ahead to washmy feet; sand-flaked and dry. Seagullsduck into the cloud as charcoal smears of a fire long burnt out. And here, myfeet, underwater pierced with salt. The waveswash like memory. I
Truth! ( and it only took 3 sign-ins to be able to make this comment 🤭)