Bethany Beach

Tonight, all along the Delaware shore, the ocean's lappingswash and hush. The deathlike crash and moanof the deep that hummed my mourning for forty summershas now distanced itself like a son's black sail that has fadedinto Greek mythology. He's gone. Wash and hush. Peace.

Northward up the coast, this usual swirl of lights from Rehoboththat flicker and blink. But now I remember what flings them upward -the happy neon clink of penny arcades, ice cream stands,little shops dealing t-shirts, surfboards, and sea-shell lamps.Too distant for hearing now, the whirl of a joyful noise.

Still. This biblical beach where I sit remembers something.Finally I'm hearing how waves out there could only repeat,sighing their tired old line about grief: He's Lost, he's lostis all they've stuttered. But now, something like a call to come forthfrom dark to the winking lights of a boardwalk holiday. I catchfrom ages past (O taste and see) a salty sting in the nosethat rinses the mouth, it's the sea's old dance on the tonguethat smacks of icy raw oysters and a classic Athiri wine.