They say you drowned. But I glimpse your face through spindrift. Hear whispers waiting in every shell. I dream you dance under moonlit waves, hair streaming weed. Our daughter’s asking questions. I hold her close, knowing she’ll follow you. She cries like a seabird tonight, her eyes reflecting the ocean.
Deborah writes at an old desk surrounded by five hundred pet bugs.
They fall like forsaken stars. Tiny sparkling fish, showering down. It happens every year, and I’m always spellbound. Sequin scales shimmer on our skin and hair, glistening and mysterious. And suddenly we’re transformed, shoaling merfolk compelled to answer the sea’s relentless call.
But all you say is, “Fish soup tonight.”
Deborah writes at an old desk surrounded by five hundred pet bugs.