WAS MY MOTHER THE OCEAN OR A RAINSTORM?

Originally posted in Amethyst Review:

I wanted the ocean to be my mother, shaking seaweed from her hair, her skirt a bolt of bright blue fabric drifting towards me as more than an idea. I heard fables retold on makeshift rafts, rocking to and fro as I ambled among rocks, beheld the crest of a wave. I hoped for a moonlit channel to traverse, to see my face reflected back. But my mother, the rainstorm, shook berries from the tree, lashed my ankles with pebbles. Unwanted roots emerged from underneath. I take the harbor ferry to leave my roots behind and lift me out of the dark, extend my eyes to where sails slide into sun. I mine the stars for milk, place my finger on my navel and a seagull emerges, a clock in its beak. Time is a procession. I am hunted by evening clouds, and I lose connection to my mother like a whistle fading in fog. Pain nourishes me because it contains seeds of goodness. I put on a blindfold and keep still. Now I don’t need to choose. I am not afraid. Ocean and rain, teach my heart to sing like the clear water that flows night and day. Who is that still voice in the water?