In the middle of a stiff winter wind, Mama, she asks to go to the beach.
That’s where she says she wants to celebrate the turning of her calendar year.
To stand on the frozen snow and turn her face directly into whatever is coming this way.
We’re the only ones there.
Nothing can mean nothing.
And everything means something. Yes — everything.
We walk the long boardwalk, our footsteps echoing hollow. She will be 61 this year.
We stand on iced sand hemmed with white snow and Mama says nothing, just gazes out at bared waters. I don’t ask her what she’s thinking.
The sunlight seems paled, hardly there in the numbing cold.
I do watch the way her hair moves in the wind, white waves of their own.
We wander down to where the waves crash on the stones. The water breaking its way on the unwavering.
Does her silence say this, that this was the way to live? Is there anything more beautiful than the wild surrender to the rock?
The song is always found in the surrender.
Mama knew there’d be days like these, when I’d see. How many more years do I have Mama to walk this winter shore?