My Red Parasol
Each day I sit upon the same wind swept boulder
watching the sun as it sinks into the Western sky.
My sister, on the larger because she's a little older.
We listen to sea gulls, so we don't hear Mother cry.
Father left years ago to make a living from the sea
And here we are each afternoon, in the rain or sun.
But Father's canvas sails on the horizon we never see.
Watching waves crash on the shore is no longer fun.
Our mother insists we wear our fanciest dresses and hats
But my chapeau never seems to want to stay on my head.
My sister, prim and proper, and I have many heated spats,
But I stubbornly tell her, "I'd rather use my parasol of red."
An hour passes, maybe two or more as we wait on the shore.
When a ship looms near, Mother hopefully waves her hand
But when it sails beyond her vision, I can stand it no more.
I walk to her, angrily kicking at smelly sea shells and sand.
She reaches out to gently squeeze my tiny finger tips.
It's a sad ritual we perform, a quiet moment we share.
Mother looks down at me with a sad smile on her lips.
I give her my red parasol to hide her tears of despair.
6/17/16
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