At the Beach

At the beach, she would yell to us,

“don’t go out too far!,” a panic in her voice

as we’d race to the shore, bounding in,

kid-fashion, all arms and legs, splashing

and shoving, water sprayed, hearing her, but ...

it was the beach, a rare treat as we dove

beneath the waves to come up to “that’s far enough”,

and realizing we were knee deep, thigh high

in the water, groaned our dismay, as she watched,

anxious, from the sand where we’d dropped our towels.

My mother lived with her fears, worried

and watched over us, a shepherdess brooding

over her lambs, afraid she’d lose one,

a rip tide pulling us under, or drowning

helpless below the crashing waves bent

on taking us away and she helpless, too,

to save us. So we never learned to swim,

a little, perhaps, enough, not really, though,

content to stand in the shallows, even now,

as I watch you swim out into the world,

wanting to yell, to warn you, “don’t go out too far!,”

afraid I’ll lose you, a rip tide pulling you under,

but my heart yells louder and louder still,

remembering, and shouting over the voice of my mother;

“Go! Go far! Leave the shore behind and swim.”