I walked to the end of the pier
and could not throw your ashes into the sea.
It was easy with my father—
to see his blackness float in the air
and settle on the wrack line,
neither the earth nor sea’s possession.
But you, dear friend, my lost sister
not of the soul but of pain, solitude, loneliness,
of God demanding that I love the abandoned,
I can not throw back only to see you
return to me a wounded speckled fish.
The tide against the timber piles beat their hieroglyphics, scattering the swans on your urn to the nearest oblivion.
The sky’s darkness matches your grey ashes,
and the grit of the sea’s salt renders you colorless
as my hand skims over your lightness.
I cried, realizing you would never become
water, wind, or earth.
You would be just a swimmer caught in a riptide,
struggling to escape by navigating to the shore,
always coming back to me enough to pull you safely through
as you trusted I would do,
knowing God left me no other choice.
Hooked to me, I carry your wound
as I watch schools of silverfish
swimming away from the pier.
I cap your urn, cradling your ashes
to the warmth of my side.
“I would never be through,”
I whispered to your ashes,
the sky, my silent father,
to myself.