LOVES THE MOST

Of what shall I write?  Of hot white sands and a baby girl in my arms, wondrous, me fighting for breath, the terror of uncertain, capricious waves that barricade the unwary swimmer from reaching the shore; the pounding of black-suited rescue teams, cutting through waves, punctuated by the cries of frightened onlookers; my husband, tall in stature, blocking the sun, Scorpionic, aloof, silent, watchful. 

Red-headed stranded swimmer in the distance, weak arm signaling distress –  only just.  My breath choking me and the baby squirming under my tightened grip, her tentative smile trying to lull me into bliss, where she can usually take me.  I look at the evening’s ominous grey clouds lowering over a strip of bright horizon being slowly eclipsed.  Time is running out, I know.

Blond son, lanky, drifts through thick sand to stand at my right hand where he belongs, his green eyes in opaque profile and I see his agony trained on the distant red hair, the arrogant one growing weaker, all can see, as the troop of black-muscled figures charge through wave crests throwing up pure white spray defiantly, nearing the prone figure drifting in the becalmed holding sea.

No sharks to be seen, but night is falling and my heart plummeting, the baby’s fist twisting my hair, yearning for attention.  The black swarm throws out a line triumphantly—once, twice.  One torpedoes, surfaces, black gloved hand grips the redhead’s delicate white shoulder – the looping, the pulling.  Thank God, it’s over, all will be well, little girl, blond trustworthy son, cautious in walk, towering stature, as he turns and coughs, smiles a half smile down at me, his mother, the one he loves the most.

Lauren Pelletier

September 9^th 2007