Today, our son, full grown at thirty-three
Lives next to the Pacific on a fault
The scene of that last seismic episode--
Bolinas, I believe, the epicenter.

At Jones Beach when our babe was nearly three
We walked into the surf, boy on dad's shoulders;
We were no match for Ocean's undertow.

My husband lost his footing, both went down,
I held God's hand, my baby's hand grasped mine
Before the demon sea could take his life.

At three, he would remember our mistake
Remind us of our nearly losing him...

So close to danger now, he has forgotten
While we, in our safe houses, never will.