i remember a one piece black bathing suit,
with a pink skirt around it,
and my little immodest legs flapping together
in a bath of seawater.
in the glare between my red sunglasses
and wide-brimmed hat.
i recall my mother's collarbones and stomach,
browned and slick with ocean salt, shouting
"don't go past the buoy!" her face a tilted back smile.
all her teeth were pearls then.

and the red beach rocks we dipped in water
and stripped across our faces.
painted mauve eye-lids and warrior streaks.
we were indians at battle, tripping up
in pebbles and stomping out the sand dollars.
zinc-nosed and sunburnt shoulders.
and what it felt like to smell a color all at once
and know that it was blue.

taking off my wet clothes and shaking
in front of the mirror, seaweed attached to the
backs of my kneecaps, the remnants of a castle
falling off my thighs in a fervent "sshhhh"
that dirtied the bathroom floor and stuck to the bottoms
of my feet. the way they'd scratch across the tiles
and drown in the thick of the carpet in the hall.

one day it was supposed to rain and thunder,
but when the afternoon light threatened only more
abundantly golden weather, we decided to risk the storm.
i remember i rode on my father's shoulders
back down to the beach as he held my mother's waist,
and watched me run back towards the tide.
lapped up by baby waves,
riding on my stomach, i watched my parents kiss each other.
the way they looked behind the water, the way the sun
turned them into distant sparkles.

06/07/2008

Author's Note:

Posted on 06/07/2008
Copyright © 2024 Lauren Singer