Walking through the green dunes on our way to Abbott’s Lagoon,
I ask if she remembers the weasel we saw years ago here, running
down the trail on two legs just ahead of us. How funny it was, just
like a cartoon character! Who knew a weasel could do that? A laugh
from her—“Of course!” And my heart’s muscle loosens, until she
asks, “What year is this?” and all my defenses form up into a line.
Temporary, that’s what this is. Take nothing for granted. We hike
through blooming salmonberry and budding lupine to the lagoon,
where she looks around for the otter we saw on that day long ago.
Like the mother of a three-year-old, I pray for an otter to appear
to heal my girl. As we stand near water’s edge, I notice three tiny
purple lines inked on her temple. I can’t go there. The ocean roars
in the distance; the sand dunes will be difficult to climb without
getting sand in our boots. We trudge ahead. I don’t ask myself if
I’m strong enough. I’m taking my daughter to the sea because
she needs it like oxygen and I’ll do what it takes to get her there.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 27, Issue 2.
Kathryn Jordan is the winner of the San Miguel de Allende Writers Conference Prize for Poetry. Her work has won awards in the Steve Kowit, Muriel Craft Bailey, Connecticut Poetry, Sidney Lanier, Patricia Dobler, and Cantor poetry contests. She finds it meaningful that the word poem comes from the Greek, poiein, which means to make.
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