The Shape of Waves

Somewhere on a Florida beach a wave crashes, washing away the imprint of two small feet.

Without the weight of its owner, a pink towel, with a logo of an elite cheer team, lifts slightly from the ground. The tide going low following the sun, an orange glow highlights a silhouette of gatherers watching the water.

They stand on the same sand where many of the same line stood before. Once a shoreline full, taking up the coast every Memorial Day weekend with their boisterous voices while they grilled and sunbathed.

Now the vastness is a silent roll call of who boarded the ferry. A new month to congregate: September, a Tsunami that's been observed building on the horizon all year. A wall of water to splash our faces like Sirens who taunt their sailors.

For her first birthday, our aunt crocheted her a mermaid tail. There are camera rolls, full of a cherub splashing her teeny hands in puddles by the lake. She only whimpered when it was time to go.

She chose a seashell-adorned gown for her kindergarten dance recital. Using the hallway as a runway, she twirled toward the stage and exclaimed, "I'm just like Princess Ariel!"

At practice, she fell, and when it was worse than a break, she stated so matter-of-factly, "Take it already so I can run and swim again!" When they amputated her leg, she designed a new one that looked like fins.

For her twelfth and final celebration, she asked to be taken to the beach.

And when her mom worried as her end neared, lungs filling with water, she gave a creed,

"look for me in the waves."

The ocean pulls back now, leaving the sand completely bare; even the empty shells find a crab to house. Yet in the negative space is the shape of her reformed, strong body, with long-grown hair billowing in the salted air.

In the foam she can be seen, and in the lullaby of the sea her giggle joins. She has traded her runway for the deep beyond. Leaving earth for an endless journey was a girl who was always ready to swim.