Quen Took

We have to look carefully to see it. But the beach is spotted with flecks of green and white and blue. Sharp, manmade litter, battered into beauty by the sea. I comb the sand with the toe of my boot in search of these treasures, like a gull mining for dead crabs.

               Brown sea glass is my favourite, though blue is the rarest. Brown sea glass reminds me of your eyes; paler when the light catches them, warm, like amber.  The sea suits you. I wish you were happier. I buy you a porcelain starfish and feel a proud glow when it makes you smile.                   Your grandmother is dying. Your grandmother is dying, and we are still desperately fanning life into a family holiday, with beach walks, and ice creams, and – when it rains – reruns of The Chase. I cook pizzas in the caravan oven. I encourage you to eat and am pleased when you do.

              We take the dog down the cliff and let him wander on the stones. He noses in the sand, stands still on the edge of a rock. He looks like the grandson of wolves.

               You leave messages for your grandmother. I accompany you to the edge of the sea and listen to you singing to her – Leave Her Johnny and Scarborough Fair. Your voice is thin and high, swallowed by the sound of the wind. You have never been more beautiful to me, never braver. 

              I bring you a pretty stone, with freckles that match the constellation of moles on your upper back.

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