These rocks have held my anger
This beach has held my pain
And little pieces of broken sea glass have held my hope
The air is full of salt water, sea weed.
I breathe in the crisp slightly chilled air with the sun shining on my face.
This may be one of my last times here. With the waves coming and going. The rocks singing a song as the water pushes by.
I feel sand in my fingernails and smile. Remembering all of the days my feet and shoes and fingers and pants have held these little reminders.
I sit and think and pray. When anger comes up, I grab tightly onto these rocks of all sizes and colors and thrust them into the sea. Or onto the ground. I break pieces of shells with my feet, and pick up other pieces softly noticing and seeing the deep purples and colors of the shell that once held a life of its own. And then it’s broken at my foot.
Birds chirp, and peddle by slowly on the glassy water. Boats bring by bigger waves and they are off.
I wonder how many tears of mine are held in this water. How many answered prayers were silently whispered with a mere inkling of hope. The words that lived on paper.
This beach doesn’t just hold these things. No, it holds the ashes of my father, and more recently my brother. This beach holds my childhood. Sandcastles and make up made out of sand and sea weed. This beach holds adventure, and freedom, and play. It sits upon my childhood home which holds even more.
I used to think if I found a blue piece of sea glass, that was Gods reminder to me that it would all be okay. I find two snowy white pieces. Through my sunglasses they appear light light blue. I lift the glasses and my eyes see what is true, they are clear, white, brushed. These tiny pieces, broken and broken again. In one way look blue, and another clear.
I hear the birds chirp again, and am reminded this is life. Tears and joy. Blue and clear. Hope and pain.
This outdoor space of home, I carry with me. When I see scattered logs and rocks and sand. When I pick up a little piece of glass. When I hear the birds. I’ll remember the little piece of home I carry, not just in the place I called home, but now in my heart, and mind, and memories.
The water holds my tears. The sand carries my pain. And the sun, with my eyes closed, holding hope of a new future. A new home. That could hold me just the same.
I’ll say goodbye, but not forgotten.