No. 8

Winter 2005

Dear Bonnie: I'm so glad you've moved
closer to the sea. There's always been
a bit of mermaid about you. Remember
how we used to walk the beach at Indianola
and gather sand dollars with the poet
who spent so much time baiting crab pots,
he seldom wrote poems? We were a strange
trinity, nomads really, come together

seeking what healing we could from wet
places in the sand where tufts of bunchgrass
huddled to remind us how alone we were
even while basking in each other's company.
All those lovers we talked about swing
on someone else's tears now. We three
finally settled for the real thing and moved
to opposite ends of the earth. Now age

and arthritis keep us from that beach.
The hills is too steep and the rocks too hard
to climb. Now we visit in our parlors
and sip ginseng tea instead of raw bourbon.
the other day in the mirror I noticed how
discourteous the notions of gravity become
when we grow old. For some reason it reminded
me of those kids who destroyed our sand castle

the last time we hiked out on the beach
to roast frankfurters and gather shells.
That was the year I began walking with a cane
and you stopped covering the gray in your hair.
This year we will watch the sea from your
parlor windows, talk about our grandkids,
and try to avoid noticing that our shawls have
become more like ropes than we ever imagined.

Copyright 2005, Frederick Zydek

nidus is an online publication supported by the Writing Program at the University of Pittsburgh's English Department.