Looking Through A Holey Stone
In a childhood photograph my Mother walks on a beach with her arms full of wind-dried sea grasses. With her gentle smile and her tousled blond curls peeking out from the hood of her coat, she exudes an aura of relaxed vitality. My brother and I, bundled in coats and hats, cheeks rosy pink from the wind, lead the way that day upon that wide, empty beach. I can still hear the seagulls screaming above the thundering surf of the Atlantic, feel the sharp wind slap, taste the salt on my lips. My pockets were assuredly filled with treasures; seashells, pebbles and bits of driftwood all polished smooth by the sea. And I remember how the ocean made me feel wide inside, open and wild, free and alive but also inextricably connected. Mother loved to tell us stories of her childhood especially her early years growing up on the ocean; of being a mariner scout or when she and Grandpa were rescued by the Coast Guard one fateful fishing trip. She would loo...