New ones

They will go without me, to this place I grew to love. Rugged and wild, it spoke to my deep-seated need to be by the sea; to feel her power and her fury, watching her in awe from a distance.

My children will hike to the top of Bray Head and sit and marvel at the Irish Sea, knowing I am across the water looking back at them from my own perch. But I will miss that hike, through the woods, cool and dark but dappled with occasional sunlight. Eventually we’d make our way out into the open, looking down at the town and looking up to see the cross at the very top of the mountain. A place of pilgrimage.

These memories are vivid, stacked upon each other from each year we created them. A tradition. Each visit different and yet the same. The path was well-worn and my feet knew every inch of it. I never looked down to see where I was going, my eyes were far too busy looking around me to see if anything had changed; drinking in the view as if it were the last time. Two years ago it was. I knew it then and every moment was bittersweet. I devoured those days and I hold them close now. I might return, but not in the same way. This year I will not sit high atop that mountain with the sea hundreds of feet below me. Draped in blessed silence and reverence. White tipped waves rushing over the blue green like horses. I will not take the path along the cliff walk to Greystones, my heart swelling with every step as I am bracketed by the sea to my left and verdant hills alive with gorse on my right.

I will not make those memories this year. I will make new ones. My own.

:

Copyright © SirenSong1208

All rights reserved

 Photographs taken by SirenSong1208

 

 

Only one voice

‘This is not a funeral,’ she said,

‘though I’m drowning in carnations.’

There are no condolence cards

or whiskey toasts

to memory,

only the sad nod of head

as a story becomes too familiar to all

and an end that happened long ago

becomes the final chapter

in a story that was told

with only one voice.

:

©SirenSong1208 ~ 2018

Photograph taken from Pinterest, unsourced

The lure to ride the waves

I wish to be on a board in the sun.

The swells of the sea undulating beneath my open thighs

As I scan the horizon

It’s peaceful

And yet exhilarating

My memory is strong

Three summers gone

The board is long

And unwieldy

As I am not used to its length

Or weight

It was purple and white

I recall an intense feeling of excitement

Building within

One for the bucket list

A girl of the sea

I had always been

But had never taken the plunge

And ridden the waves before

At least

Not on my feet

The adrenaline that I feel

Being tossed and turned by

The ocean’s current

Should frighten me

Make me more cautious

But I’m addicted to that high

The way it makes me feel

Invincible

When I emerge from the surf

Smiling

And breathless

But balancing upon fiberglass

And the power of the sea

That was a new test

As with everything new

I was focused

As well as thrilled and nervous

But I was all in

And all in it turned out to be

I’d ride the waves to the shoreline

Flying off into the water

Before I made land

Laughing and paddling out to try once more

Except for that last time…

Like every other attempt

 I caught the swell

And rode the wave to shore

But that final time it came faster

The surging current swiftly moving inland

Like a bullet train

And I was caught off guard

My board hit the sand

Flinging me off

Pitching me face first into the sand

A horrifying sight I’m sure

To those sitting there

I managed to stand up

Sand in my mouth

And my head ringing from the impact

Not realizing the damage I had done

The wounds caused

And just how lucky I had been

But despite the danger

Despite what happened

The lure to ride those waves again

Tugs at me

As the ocean does to the shore

:

*Continuing with my (apparent) aquatic theme, this is not new but from two summers past. And the lure still tugs at me.

©SirenSong1208

Photo taken from Pinterest

Snow White

Snow White.

She said I reminded her of Snow White.

The dark curls

the blue eyes

and the red lips against pale skin.

 .

Initially, I thought she was romanticising

as all new mothers are wont to do.

The newborn baby girl,

desperately wanted after the arrival of two rambunctious boys.

The utter perfection of a new life.

Somehow mere words cannot express

the beauty that is found in such an arrival.

 .

But then she showed me

and it was as she said.

The hair, the eyes, the mouth, the skin

and the nickname stuck.

:

*This is not a new piece. I first posted this two years ago but I was reminded of it and it made me smile so here it is again.

©SirenSong1208

Photo taken from Pinterest

September 11th

On this day, fifteen years ago, life changed.

I was a new mother

grappling with changes

finding joy in discovery

and excited about the journey I had embarked upon

with this tiny person I had brought into the world.

Then it all changed.

The world became darker

filled with unspeakable horror and pain

and craven disregard for human life.

I can still recall where I was and what I was doing that day

of being glued to the television

of watching buildings that I had grown up with

smoke

and ultimately crumble before my eyes

before the eyes of the world.

The fear I had within me was cloying and suffocating.

I knew people who worked near there

the woman whom I called my little sister

traveled through that building every morning and evening. 

For what seemed like hours I tried to find her, to speak to her

to make sure that she was safe.

Ultimately she was,

but the horror of her experience was not something she could brush off

like the dust that settled upon the city.

For days, for weeks I watched the footage

still unable to fathom such evil

hoping each day that another survivor might be found

that another family might have a miracle.

I read the stories

my tears falling copiously upon the page

knowing some names

not knowing scores of others

but their stories were now for everyone to read.

I was moved by the incredible acts of bravery

and heartened by the way the world softened

for just a bit

and gathered together as brothers and sisters

differences aside.

I found out that the greatest loss, outside of the city itself,

came from the town I grew up in

a train ride from the city

a comfortable suburban haven by the sea

and I grieved anew for the losses.

Those six degrees of separation

becoming pronounced. 

I held my child closer

my heart heavy

wishing that this new reality was not hers, not ours

but knowing that this world, our world

was forever changed

the monster was no longer

under the bed.

:

©SirenSong1208

Photograph by Jake Rajs

Summer is…

Summer is…

Endless days of adventure and discovery

and slow easy mornings.

It is salty-tinged mermaid days

and firefly nights;

catching them in a jar

only to release them

en masse

a bright torch

in the evening air.

.

Summer is…

Lazy days laying on a blanket

surrounded by the verdant green

of lawn and leaves

watching swiftly moving clouds take shape

overhead

as birds practice their calls

and insects whirr about flowers.

It is picking plump raspberries from the vine

and having more wind up in your mouth

than in the bowl.

.

Summer is…

Cotton candy at a baseball game

sticky goodness and broad smiles

and it is the velvety darkness of a summer night

the moment before slumber takes me

as I lay listening

to the sound of crickets

performing their nocturnal symphony.

:

©SirenSong1208

Photograph taken by SirenSong1208

Blowing bubbles

She smiles with childish glee

the pure pleasure of blowing bubbles

an age-old childhood pursuit.

Trying to blow them as big as you can

before they burst.

Watching as that small

unburst

kaleidoscope floats away.

Cheering it on.

Wondering how far it will travel

before it slips

from sight.

:

©SirenSong1208

Photograph taken by SirenSong1208