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I spread my toes wide in the sand,
tanned feet in stark contrast,
the white sand squeeked like cornstarch,
saw the shadows that we cast.

She sat forward, hunched, hands clasped,
her shoulders round and frail,
her clear blue eyes were milky now,
her face seemed pinched and pale.

Just last month she was terrified
of the seagulls by the shore,
but now her world had narrowed
and she noticed them no more.

Above our heads they swooped and screeched
and laughingly cocked their heads,
they eyed us hoping that we'd brought
some popcorn or some bread.

But, of course, we'd brought no popcorn,
our focus was all on her,
on how she'd disconnected,
her reality a twisted blur.

So they shadow-boxed the demon,
would naming it give it strength?
and no one dared to speak of it,
as its shadow grew in length.

In this family that I was part of,
(but more an unwelcome guest)
I was puzzled by their silent taboo,
knew my place was tenuous at best.

Confused by their veiled insults,
oft disguised as jokes and jests,
in her madness became my ally,
I responded with tenderness.

So I dug my toes into the coolness,
just sat with her on the beach,
and smoked cigarette after cigarette,
and listened to her speak.

So spoke with long-dead relatives,
time-traveled to her youth,
and who was I to judge her,
to tell madness from the truth?

I think her soul was straddling worlds,
her life-force was still in the host,
her body's grip was tightly held,
reluctant to give up the ghost.

I hope I helped her somehow,
while they both of us ignored,
I listened without judgement,
sitting by her, on the shore.

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