I was watching my mother from behind,
her feet barely touching the ocean
that was taking her son out in waves.
His body rose up and down
while salty, sandy water
rippled over her toes.
Her screams were the ones
I’d heard my whole life.
When my aunt
tried to teach her to swim
my mother held
on to the side of the pool,
her body soaked with humiliation.
“Oh, Charlotte,” my aunt moaned,
“Put you face in the water.
It won’t kill you.”
It was on the mountains
my mother felt safe
even with the bears,
wildcats and snakes.
Me and my brother
would run ahead
of her and my dad
on a trail where
she would call out
when we went too far.
At our kitchen window,
she would hold me,
and we would watch
an approaching tornado
wiggle and hop its way
across fields.
It was the water
that left her unable to breathe.
It was like when her father
held her under.
Like when her mother
snuffed out her dreams.
My grandfather would say,
“Your mother was always drifting.
She couldn’t be situated.”
I see her now.
My mother holding the garden hose,
standing by an inflated shell.
She waits and watches as I
splash and laugh.
Her face is drawn
and her tears fall.
Enough to fill my pool.
