When one day I sat near the ocean,
watching the progress of the water against the shore,
as the seagulls pecked at the sand
and osprey plucked fish from the sea,
as children hopped over waves,
I wondered what secrets were in those waves,
what history they had, every moment a sweeping-by,
the gift-giving breath of life.
Under me the sand yielded.
Because I believe in ancient ways, in magic
our forefathers wrote into their lives
in everything they touched,
and that this became associated with them
as the space in which they lived,
the time they lived through,
I know that all those drops of water
which people have encountered,
hopping over the waves or telling out the sand,
carry with them some measure, some essence
of all those who have ever been touched by them.
Could we not, reassembling them,
create a full, perfect, exact replica
of the ones who once touched them?
Or, at least, touching those drops,
have some connection with the people
who once stirred them?
I took a step forward, closer to the water.
The moment I touched the waves,
I knew that I was part of this impulse,
with a connection, touching those drops,
with all the others who have once moved in them.
I brought the water to my mouth, tasted its saltiness.
As I touched the drops, I was soothed a little,
reassured in my existence, my place in the world,
and that I would live on a little through them,
even past my own time.
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