Vanishing Point

Vanishing Point

Wind kicks sand, a mist of saltwater layers my skin.
I am on Hatteras island, the Atlantic on one side, Pamlico sound on the other.

My feet unsteady as waves roll in, shift ground beneath me.
I walk and walk, stop to gather a few intact shells,

ocher and cream, maroon and gray,
what were once home to scallops, clams, snails.

Gulls and pelicans skim waves in search of food.
Sanderlings dash back and forth, their bodies a study of white and black.

The day is overcast, matches my mood. Land and water become one,
shoreline merges with ocean.

Once I walked this beach with my mother, once with my father.
They are ghosts, returning when my mind turns

away, when a bird’s cry becomes my mother’s, when wind is my father’s sigh.