horizon line

this is a piece of my life.

i remember it from the

beginning.

bigger than anything i’d ever seen,

louder than anything i’d ever heard

afraid  of its beauty.

afraid i would let go

of my father’s hand

let the sea take me.

afraid i would be blinded by  its sun-on-water glow

afraid i would fall apart in the pulsing blue-black silence.

yet still i wanted to be a part of it

wanted to feel the roll of the ocean rock me to sleep.

since those early days when only the symphony of seasalt was heard by my ears

my legs have grown longer, my mind has grown sharper.

now the sound of the sea is muffled by life,

nearly silenced by sound piling on top of it.

sometimes i wish to return to my undersea paradise,

to give myself into the fear of being lost

to let go of my father’s hand.

but if i were to give up my rushing life

for the gentle coastal swells

would I forget all i’ve come to know?

how could i let the current rip me away from everything?

my baby sister, who’s taught me my life isn’t the only one worth living for

my father, who taught me to swim

held my hand as my life bloomed into his.

my father, who knew i was sick

and that he was too

and that despite all he’s taught me

was still learning a few things himself.

as a child, i thought my life was about reaching the horizon.

as a soul, i know it is the journey of ups and downs

waves and sand bars

that is the horizon.