I sit where she told me to.
On the part that the water never touches,
way back from where the tide draws its line.
Toes burrowed in the sand, I pull my treasures close:
rocks with their dark bleached away;
tangles of dried up seaweed;
a pile of tiny bones made for swimming or soaring.
I see her stop way out where it’s deep but calm,
eyes turned up to the sky, shrouded in an endless gray.
She lifts a box overhead as an offering,
her hands rotating, ashes cascading down.
Taking flight. Drowning. Coating her wet body.
I cry out as I stand but my buried feet betray me
and my knees land in the collected detritus.
I know that I cannot go into the water.
For if I were to swim to her, and try to be with her,
my arms would tire long before she took notice.