Memorial Day

With my eyes closed, I travel back to my Ocean, back through time, I'm a small child.  Yet I'm not, I'm aware that it is now, and I've had all the experiences, all the losses, all the wisdom gained, all the heartbreaks, all the disillusionment, all the clarity, that I have now.  I travel back, with an ache in my heart, and I run down 21st Street to the Boardwalk.  It's amazing to be able to run again, in this dream, down 21st Street, and then feeling and hearing the sandy wooden boards of the boardwalk beneath my bare feet.  And then through the sand on the beach to my Ocean.  I used to call out to the Ocean, once I reached its edge, but this time I don't, my grief is too heavy.  I just stand there.  But the ocean calls to me, as it always did.

Thank God you are still here, I think silently, but it can hear me, I know.  Everything is gone now, on this Memorial Day.  But you are still here, Ocean.  And with my eyes closed I can travel to you, here in Ocean City.  And you are the same, thank God.  But behind me, everything is gone.  Phillip's Crab House is gone, which I can't bear, and which makes me glad that I'm not really, physically, there, because it would be impossible to bear not having their distinct crab spice mixing with and infusing your salt air.  The Surfrider Motel is gone.  My parents are gone.  And, Ocean, now my country is gone, too.

And the Ocean softly replies with breaking waves, it's okay, it's okay, it's okay.  And, as has always struck me and strikes me again:  the Ocean doesn't care.  It's okay, it's okay, it's okay.  Come in, come in, come in.  Or not, or not, or not. It's always struck me that the Ocean doesn't care, really.  Yet we have this very close relationship, and always have, and it does care, in its non-caring way.  The Ocean is the only thing on this earth that is comforting by not caring.  Because it says, it's okay, I'm here, I'm here, I'm here.  It's okay.  I was here before the Surfider was.  I was here before Phillip's was.  I was here before your parents were born.  I was here before you were born.  I was here long before your country was called your country.  I was here before, before, before.  I'm here now, I'll be here for a long, long, long time.  So, do you see, my child, it's okay, it's okay, it's okay?  It's okay, it's okay, it's okay.    

But, Ocean, how can you say that?  Everything is gone.  Everyone is gone.  And nothing is the same but you. And I start to cry then, as I say that to my Ocean.  I weep, as I continue listening to the Ocean's non-caring yet caring comforting communication, which is the same as it ever was.  Come in, come, come, come in.  Come in, my child.  I walk in until it carries me, and my salty tears mix with the salty sea foam.  The Ocean washes my tears away from my face and accepts them as part of itself.  I'm part of my Ocean, right in this particular, wonderful, awesome spot, where I have become one with it since I was a small child.

Please, let me stay here, Ocean, I can't go back.  I can't go back with no parents, no Phillip's, no Surfrider, and no country.  Let me swim out farther, carry me out.  But my Ocean sends me back, go back, go back.  I am still here and I will be here for you, my grief-stricken, grown-up little one, so come back, come back, come back, whenever you need me.  Leave me your tears and I'll hold them, this Memorial Day and always.