Cold Mountain Review

My hand inside Dad's
I plop along barefoot
in wet sand
in the foamy highest
reach of the waves.
Sheryl is talking with him
about one of her college courses.
I'm listening to the screeching
and whooshing sounds of the shore
and smelling the salty, seaweedy scents.
I see a shell and pull
away from his hand.
It's a clamshell and beside it,
a jagged piece of driftwood,
like a withered old finger.
I pick up both and
toss them back to the ocean.
Dad and Sheryl laugh,
and I turn and see
them holding hands.
I run back and take his hand,
the one she held. We begin
walking again, my feet plopping
and stomping and kicking in the bubbly white
ribbons weaving their way along the shore.
Let's sit down here, Dad says.
Can I go play in the waves?
Okay, but only up to your ankles.
I run past the foam and turn
to see if Dad is watching.
He and Sheryl are sitting
close, smiling at each other,
Sheryl's hair so bright and blond
leaning against Dad's black, and their
hands together again, Dad's on top of hers.
I turn back toward
the waves, run out farther,
chasing the receding water.
A wave crashes into me
and knocks me over.
Salty water rushes
into my mouth and nose.
Sand scrapes my back and legs.
I struggle, choking. Dad! Dad!
A hand grabs my arm
and pulls me up.
Dad's face looks
scared, angry.
Can't I even hold—
I start crying.
Dad pulls me along,
back to dry sand.
He lets go of my arm,
takes a couple of steps
away from me and stops.
He looks at Sheryl,
shakes his head slowly,
turns back toward me,
kneels in the sand, opens his arms—
My son—and the whole
world tilts toward
those strong,
warm arms.