Mother Ocean

We are chest-to-chest, it’s the way you like to be held, how you feel most secure, and this is your first encounter with the ocean. I feel your heart thumping against me as I walk toward the water, your sun-warmed arms around my neck, nobody will ever trust me this much. You lean against me as if I’m a fact of nature, as solid and reliable as a tree, a boulder, a planetary feature. I step from the dry sand to the wet, into the water, toe-heel-ankle deep in the foamy brown wave now pulling away from us. I stand with you, we’re both looking out at the open ocean, waves of water, gathering itself, pulling, flowing, sighing, roaring, we’re standing in it, you’re above it, your hands grasped behind my neck, the next wave coming, your body tensing, my arms circled around you, the wave sweeps under you with a whoosh. “Again!” you laugh-shout into the air. “Do it again, Mommy!” You giggle and call to the waves, “Come back!” and they come back.