Mortgage-bruised pilgrims
linger along Silver Strand,
pop caps against plywood boarding,
edges furred with salt-rust flakes
from storms that chewed the pier.
Seabee retirees
swap tide updates on porch steps;
third-generation surfers
stitch wax into their palms
and still call this south jetty 'church'.
Here my son and I rinsed sand
from our ankles with a garden hose,
him shrieking, laughing, shivering
when cold bit his feet.
I once yelled at him, raging
for dropping keys into surf,
as if that mattered more
than a day of chasing, wrestling in the tide.
He doesn’t remember.
I can’t forget.
Now, he’s taller than me,
vanishing downshore.
I stand outside, voices rise
in the salt-hard wind.
Barbecue smoke drifts
from driveways, tailgates,
settles into dusk-lit lawn chairs.
Boarded bungalows peel to raw board,
splintering porch rails;
nails weep orange along the grain.
A bike frame, chainless,
reddens into memory beside dune grass
still gripping sand.
There is grace in forgetting:
a tide lowers its voice,
sand swallows what was said.