I stand.
Where sand meets sea.
Still.
Barefoot and numb.
Inside.
Empty of all emotion.
Keenly on high alert.
Warm breezes waft through the air.
Thoughts begin weaving through my head.
I came searching for calm.
I came searching for peace.
As if it were a precious shell
I’d find in a tide pool,
pocket,
and later display.
Proudly.
I laugh at my own audacity.
In times of grief.

Gentle waves lick rhythmically
at the sand beneath my toes.
Cold water engulfs my ankles,
retreats quickly,
magnetically surging backwards
from where it came.
I barely flinch.
I am a boulder.
I am a rock.
I am stone.
It’s what I tell myself.
Every day.
In the mirror.
Those damn affirmations.
Building my confidence.
Buttressing my self-esteem.
Gluing myself back together.
In times of grief.

I wiggle my toes,
playfully flicking sequins of sand into the air.
They catch the light,
twinkle,
fall like glitter on a canvas of gold.
I feel the gritty texture,
the scrape of broken shells against my skin.
The sting of salty water.
I am almost at peace.
For this one moment.
Peace is my everything.
Not happiness.
Not joy.
Not laughter.
All overblown.
All unsustainable.
In times of grief.

Time seems nonexistent.
As if everything stopped.
Yet, as if everything is in constant motion.
Maybe time has devoured itself.
Has ceased to exist.
I steady my breath.
I focus on the many sounds of the seaside.
The birds. The waves. The kids. The seals. The squeals.
I visualize all that I love in this world.
My people.
My family.
In circles, holding hands.
We seem destined to discover our fortune.
Crystals predicting our future.
Tarot cards mapping our past.
Always learning the inevitable.
That which we don’t want to hear.
But that which will bind us together.
In times of grief

The waves gain momentum.
Rocking me back on my heels.
The sand parts under my weight.
I’m sinking.
Unstable.
I lose some control with each assault.
Control is elusive.
A mirage.
A trap.
This too I fight, to no avail.
I’ve ventured too far, or am I too near?
Everything is upside down and inside out.
In times of grief.

Walls of water crash against me.
I’m knocked off balance.
I try to steady myself,
awaiting the water’s inevitable retreat.
A momentary reprieve.
Or will I be swept out to sea?
Just like that.
One split second.
Calm to calamity.
Peace to panic.
Life to death.
Amongst the swells.
Under the dark, murky waters of the grand Pacific.
In times of grief.

I don’t move.
I can’t.
I’m bolted to the sand.
I’m transfixed by the sun
hovering above the horizon.
Idling.
Delaying descent.
Painting the sky shades of pink, red, yellow and orange.
This is why I came.
To see the watercolor sky.
Wispy and translucent.
Seemingly a million miles away,
and yet somehow within my grasp.
I am mesmerized.
In times of grief.

Waves predictably intensify.
I struggle to free myself.
They lash against my shins, my knees, my thighs.
Spraying my face, stinging my eyes,
wrapping me in slimy strands of seaweed.
I am full on fighting now.
Fighting to flee.
My dream has morphed into a nightmare.
Reality into cruelty.
Peace into tragedy.
Life into death.
I know this.
I’ve seen this before.
In times of grief.

I know to save myself.
But for a moment,
I’m tempted to succumb.
It’s easier.
It would be so much easier.
But I am a fighter.
Fighting, I know well.
Fighting pain.
Fighting fatigue.
Fighting memories.
Fighting loss.
Fighting loneliness.
For no one fights happiness.
Only a miserable sod!
I never give up.
I’ve never had the luxury,
or so I’ve convinced myself.
Self-determination is our humanity.
We are its master and its slave.
Especially in times of grief.

I won’t give in.
There was only ever one outcome.
I kick at the sand.
Struggling to untangle myself.
The chief of all waves tries to topple me.
I gather all my strength.
All my will.
All my heart.
For without heart, without love, the love I feel for my people,
I would succumb.
I’d go with the flow, literally!
Let the water envelope me and carry me away.
Out toward the fiery horizon.
To the end of the earth.
To the destiny of which I speak.
Away from times of grief.

But I only know to save myself.
It’s all I’ve ever known.
I run to shore.
To dry sand.
To land.
To the crooked, wooden steps up to town.
Back into the crowds.
Back into oblivion.
To those who did not see me struggle.
Did not see me nearly drown.
In the velvety night sky.
In the dark, murky waters.
Perhaps they are distracted.
Perhaps they too are in pain.
Perhaps they too are struggling, or fighting, or mourning.
Perhaps they too are in times of grief.

The End.

By Deborah J. Clarke
2022