RITUALS

My mom and I had a ritual when I would visit my parents in their St. Augustine home.  Every morning, early, while the tide was low and everyone slept, we would slip off to the beach near their home, to walk together, collect garbage and search for shells.  Our route, at minimum, was 2 hours long, sometimes 3 if we happened upon large pockets of shells or tidal pools to distract us.  Over the 4 years that I visited her after her diagnosis, this was our ritual, and one that we talked about every phone call in between those visits.  

Last year she stopped walking with me as it became overwhelming and physically taxing.  But this last trip, the day before we left, 2 days before she died, I went on one last beachwalk, dragging her in my heart as I followed our route and searched for her.  The picture at the top of the my blog is from that last morning beachwalk and a day like the day I describe in my poem.  It is a very rough draft, but it has been niggling at me for two years now.  I guess having the shell in the poem actually reside back with me now has prompted this need to write about the moment.

So this may change drastically in the weeks/months to come, or it may not, one never knows.  Usually the end product is very different from the original, but even an imperfect piece of work needs to be shared should the opportunity never arise to perfect it.

THE CONCH

I walk ahead a little ways, scouting,

the surf frothy as whipped cream on hot chocolate

as the wind pounds the water down towards our feet.

It is warm, but you are wrapped tightly against the chill

you cannot seem to fight off anymore,

anxious as a child and pulling back from the water that creeps up

as the tide brings in the rising sun.

This week our beach walks have been full of conchs,

the only ones that really matter now -  the holy grail

of these early morning shell hunters we have become.

This is not a walk you want to be on anymore -

I know this, but this walk is my selfish salvation,

to be filed into my archive of memories;

one last attempt to stop time and just be with you

because I know the archive will soon be complete.

I loop my arm through yours, and we walk slowly,

scanning the water’s edge

as the surf marches in constant rhythm of attack and retreat,

looking for those telltale signs of the shell.

I encourage you to look, though you don’t really know

how to find them anymore, going through the motions

perhaps because you sense my necessity.

Tiny black conch after tiny black conch, charcoal

and beautiful, our bag is full of them

and you tell me how you wish you could find one.

Though we walked this path yesterday,

there is no evidence that we existed in this place at all,

as tomorrow we will again exist anew
when we walk this path once more.

The water pulls out and I see the division of sea, water

rushing out around something substantial,

and in the brilliance of the pink and orange sun

reflecting off the sand and the object

I guess that it is what you seek.

“Mom, look, go see what that is,” I tell you,

pointing towards the edge and gently guiding you to it

as you struggle to see what I see.

You bend down, hands shaking with palsy

and pull the dark shell like a child,

eyes wide and face ecstatic as the conch emerges,

perfect, slate grey and flawless, and

larger than both your hands put together.

“Oh Mom, look what you found!” I whispered,

for it suddenly seemed a moment as reverent

as any to be found in a church.

“I can’t believe it,” your words slur as your brain

struggles to put them together in the right order

and you clutch the shell tightly to your chest.

“Thank you,” you smile and we set off again,

my arm through yours as you hold this treasure,

determined to finish our habitual route even though

the prize we sought has already been found.

And when we turn and head back we see our prints

already being erased by the rising tide,  

the shell and our memories – the ones I hold for you,

the only evidence that we ever existed here.

- C. Black Johnson

Sept. 18, 2011

Honest, constructive criticism is always appreciated!  (you english people know who you are.)