I Imagine
I imagine one more holiday.
My mother sits at a large picture window
looking out over a broad beach,
watching dogs fetching sticks.
Then, because she cannot help it,
she takes her shoes off to walk through packed sand.
I imagine her sighting the offshore rock
where puffins nest.
I imagine footprints—hers and mine
and the paw prints of the dog—
someone else’s—
who joins us for the price of a stick thrown
over and over into the waves.
My mother could count her trips to the beach
on one hand,
and most of those times have been with me.
Once, in Wales, we sat on the long sea wall
under Dylan Thomas’s boathouse.
A cat walked the wall out to us,
precise and careful
to get as few grains of sand as possible
between its paw pads.
As it preened and arched under my mother’s smooth hand,
its black hairs caught in her diamond rings.
The other time we went to the beach
was in Australia.
We stayed out all afternoon,
throwing and throwing a stick,
a big black dog running first after,
then in front of it,
my dad sleeping in the car parked at the roadside,
my mother and I playing together
as we had never played before.
My mother and the ocean
have always been so far divided,
with me as the guide rope in between.
I imagine reeling them both in toward each other
and one more trip.
My mother, me, a dog or cat.
Wind to bundle up for and to walk against.
Wind to turn our ears away from.
Sand to pour out of our pockets
to form a small volcano
with a crab’s claw at the top.
So that years from now,
when I empty one pocket,
I will find sails from by-the-wind sailors
and shark egg casings,
fragile black kelp berries
and polished stones.
The bones of my mother. The dreams of me.
From the other pocket, empty,
I will pull all the reunions I never fought hard enough for—
regrets over trips to the sea we never made.
And I’ll imagine taking me to oceans.
Walks. Treasures hidden in and hiding sand.
Someone walking with me—
someone else’s child, perhaps,
and a dog chasing sticks.
Note: I never took that last trip to the ocean with my mother, but I think of her every year when I come to stay at the beach on my own, and this year in particular, every time I throw the stick for Morrie and every time children come to play with us. Here is a link to my favorite photo of my mother, plus other stories and poems about her.
Written for the dVerse Poets prompt, Prose Poetry.To play along, go HERE.
Love this.
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Had you ever read it before, Patti? I wrote it years ago.
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Very dear. I know you cherished your mom. Thought of you today as I was walking around in the yard as art project. We’ve expanded the area out by the cave, or, la cueva, to you Mexicanos. Look forward to walking around in the yard and introducing you to new shrubs, trees, vines, etc the next time you are here. Hope you are having a lovely and meaningful time at the beach.
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I am, but still trying to get my energy back after that bad two months in Nov. and Dec. Hope this isn’t a permanent thing.
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I absolutely adore this one.
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Thanks, fm. I wrote it so long ago that I think my mom was still alive. I was imagining taking her to Canon Beach, Oregon and having my sisters meet us there. It never happened, but I did walk beaches with someone else’s children and after throwing sticks for a progression of other people’s dogs, am finally throwing them for Morrie. Well, balls. He refuses to chase anything but green tennis balls. He even refused the orange tennis ball that came with the throwing stick.
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Oh those memories of things we should have, could have, would have done. I miss them too and oddly, even MORE now than when i was younger.
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That was a very nice remembrance of your mother. In particular I liked this line: “The dreams of my mother. The bones of me” in the stanza describing what was in the one full pocket.
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Thanks, Frank.
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When memories like this is a treasured gem, with those memories in the pocket. I think your mothers is in every beach you go to.
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Absolutely. Bjorn.
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A lovely tribute to your mother, Judy. You have painted detailed and delicate images of walks on beaches with her. I love that cat on the sea wall under Dylan Thomas’s boathouse; the lines:
‘My mother and the ocean
have always been so far divided,
with me as the guide rope in between.
I imagine reeling them both in toward each other
and one more trip’;
and.the stanza:
‘So that years from now,
when I empty one pocket,
I will find sails from by-the-wind sailors
and shark egg casings,
fragile black kelp berries
and polished stones.
The dreams of my mother. The bones of me.’
I have not long lost my mother and your poem has touched my heart.
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So sorry, Kim. We are so lucky, however, that it is good memories that we have of our mothers.
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Beautiful and sad. I miss my mother.
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This poem is so delicately beautiful it tears at the heart. Regrets and longings trotting back and forth like the dog with the stick. Perfect;
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A lovely simile, Jane. Right on track. Thanks so much for reading and making such an insightful comment.
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It’s a beautiful poem 🙂
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Beautiful memories which left me quite emotional as I neared the close. Thank you for sharing.
Kind regards
Anna :o]
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Thanks for sharing your feelings about my feelings, Anna.
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So beautifully written. I especially liked the emptying of the pocket and the treasures therein. Good read!
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One might surmise that you have lived quite a fascinating life scrolling through your categories below or sifting through the particles in your pockets. A stunning poem.
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Thanks, GI. Our minds have deep pockets and yes, mine are nearly full.
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Oh, oh, oh. I’m literally covered in goosebumps. This is just beautiful.
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Thanks, Sarah. The trip to Great Britain with my mother was such a special time and that afternoon stands out in my mind. I have a photo, but it is at home in a photobook and I don’t have access to it. Perhaps I’ll find it and put it into the post when I get home.
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A beautiful tribute to your mother and your relationship with her. Beautifully written
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Such a vivid memory and yearning in this. Every time I walk the beach, I see my father who loved it as much as I.
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It’s a powerful place.
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a powerful prose poem which proves the point of the genre so perfectly. Your words touch so delicately as the pictures and pull on heart string
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Thanks, Laura. I love hearing your reactions.
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Very moving and touching with the travels and journeys with your mother ~ I hope you will feel her presence with you on every walk on that beach ~
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Thanks, Grace. A lovely wish!!!
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Life sings in the face of loss as we remember. Lovely tribute.
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And a lovely expression of the theme, Ros.
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This is so tender and beautiful. ❤
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That’s wonderful! I think if you were to set it as prose, it would make a very fine prose-poem indeed.
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