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Beach Soccer
As the years passed
my father distanced himself
from his children in
direct correlation
to the demands of his career
No more bedtime rides
high upon his shoulders
No more crawling
onto his lap
But at the seaside
he ran with us toward the water
where he twirled me high
above the white spray
And he played soccer
My father’s shots on goal?
I never saved one
from going into the net
My brother’s?
He would let me win
Gathering Stones
That weekend my father
instructs us to gather flat stones
that have washed up on the beach
He wants them for the path
he’s putting in the garden back home
My brother and I marvel
that home is a place where things happen
even with us gone
You’ll never use these stones my aunt says
We coax her because
we can’t abide
to see any one contradict our father
Still she refuses to bend down
to pick one stone
Then she slips and falls
on the algae rich breaker
We laugh
adults and children alike
and watch her walk away
feet slapping on wet sand
her bum a wiggle of stains