I can still hear the waves.

 

I felt like I was rocking in a boat,

sick to my stomach and barely afloat.

 

I was tired under the setting sun,

not knowing by midnight it would all be done.

 

My eyes filled as the waves grew

and I knew that I was losing you.

 

Suddenly, the sea was tossing me violently.

I clung to the edges, screaming silently.

 

I didn’t want them to hear the pain.

 

I felt like I had become fire,

my womb a burning funeral pyre.

 

And though I thought the ocean a lying thief,

I dove into the waves for cool relief.

 

The current dragged me down below,

no air to breathe, nowhere to go.

 

Then there you were, in the palm of my hand,

and I was slammed viciously onto dry land.

 

I had the breath knocked right out of me.

 

I couldn’t even cry— the sea had stolen my tears,

the tide confirming all of my fears.

 

The ebb and flow the proof of death,

in and out mocking my lack of breath.

 

I went numb — how could I do this again?

Just call it a night, with “the end” and “amen?”

 

But that night I dreamt of you,

looking out at the waves and wearing blue.

 

I had never seen eyes so beautiful.

 

We held you close, watched the waves cascade,

and told you there was no need to be afraid.

 

And when we awoke, no breath in my lungs,

your name was there on both of our tongues.

 

And I knew from my dream and the nudging emotion

that I had released you back to the ocean.

 

I turned from the sea, and though the pain was my own,

I found, hands in mine, that I wasn’t alone.

 

It’s time to move the mountain…

and learn to breathe again…

 

…though I can still hear the waves.

 

For Oliver James… April 29, 2019.

Photo Credit

Featured Image: Tobias Bjørkli

Bottom Image: Tom Swinnen