POEM

I’d like to feel again, my six-year-old self

skimming a long, sea oat-surrounded trail

to the ocean like a skipping stone, the wind

in my dark hair, legs pumping like pistons.

And oh, that first plunge into the water, the

squealing — how it felt to be hit by a wave

and tumble to the shore, as light as a shell.

Now, it’s hard to walk the trails to the beach.

Each step works my calf muscles, my bare

feet sinking deep into hot sand. And the sun

is like a blowtorch, not the gentle source of

warmth that I remember, the ocean rife with

dangers I knew nothing about as a child. So

I settle into a folding chair with a book, my

aging body slathered with the highest SPF,

and watch a couple of kids scoop wet sand

into bright plastic buckets while others splash

in shallow pools, their faces the definition of

delight. If only I could snap my fingers, step

out of a body that has become too weary and

cumbersome, and run to the water like I used

to — limbs weightless as a plover, my thoughts

no heavier than a beach ball, a paper kite rising.

— Terri Kirby Erickson