Where once we laughed, bent over our middles,
pounding the table, or just smirking with a rueful
“Oh, my God”, sort of way, could I forget the silent beach?
Rustles of sand at my window as you walk off
hands in your pockets after our gazes met one last time
as you checked I remained alive and you had no duty
to fill any more. How could the sand slither so
beneath our feet, like an upturned timer wiping clean
wiping, wiping away our faces, our moisture,
until only the rollers were brave enough to face
me and the sand and the laughter and the quiet
and what had passed away never to return again.
Never the same river or ocean or hands awaiting
the clock of our unmaking until your rueful smile
no longer smirks at the me that was never there
in your dreaming, and I am made who I am again. Real.
Sheri Fresonke Harper