This is where we came to wander:
where waves tickled my childhood toes—
yours too, gnarled even then.
You, my Oma, bent over receding surf,
pointing out coquina clams and sand crabs
as they pushed back down, again and again,
among the broken fan shells, tan and white.
You showed me scallop shells—
vibrant reds, oranges, mottled purple-blues—
and weathered, spiraled tops of sea snails.
Foamy waters surged back and forth,
spouting breaths of deep salty sweetnesses.
I looked up when gulls laughed overhead,
or turned back round when sanderlings sprinted
past, plucking life from the sand.

Once you painted me on that beach.
Every day before I walk Lateef,
I see my five-year-old self on the wall.
Her slight smile follows me.
Some days I travel the corridors of time
straight back to June 1979.
I hear you laugh, and today say,
“You think you only now found poetry?”