On a Hilton Head Island beach, I almost
give up looking for her. It’s October, one year
after her death. The hues that sunsets leave
in the sky on most days are absent.
I stop my stroll, stare
at the colorless sky’s reflection
in the ashen ocean.
Pipers stir the damp sand with their bills.
While ospreys dive, the seascape
becomes more of a thing I feel
than merely see, possessing an inner life
with complications. The surf moans.
Seagulls circle overhead and cry
as if they, too, have suffered losses, live
with melancholy and longings
as persistent as my own.
There ought to be some comfort in this.
The horizon should reveal more than a drab bend.
I expect clouds to shift, think
the half-moon might appear, then wait
for her invisible presence
and her touch in a breeze, a voice
among hushed waves, as soft
as every time she said goodnight,
but there are only the voices
of strangers,
all of them wondering,
Who is he looking for?
What is he seeking?
Gregory E. Lucas lives on Hilton Head Island in South Carolina. He loves to swim in the ocean and he plays classical guitar every day. He is a caregiver to his ninety-year-old mother.