Standing atop a rock
overlooking the ocean
I feel for the first time
something that seems so familiar.
The wet mist tickles my face,
catches on my eye-lashes,
lingers on my tongue and lips
like the salty tears
I cried the day my aunt
died and left a note,
saying to bury her at sea.
The eerie moans and whistles
of the great whales in the distance
sound like the crying of my soul,
crying to escape.

The splash of the waves
against the rocks
soothes my troubled heart.
I am at peace here,
with the ocean of salty
tears,
crying whales,
sighing waves.
I take a deep breath
hoping
to inhale this place
into my very being
and hold it there
forever.

But all I am able
to breathe in
is the smell of water
and seaweed,
and tears . . . thousands of salty
tears, wept in sadness and joy,
shed in peaceful melancholy
or lonely remembrances.

A soft hand touches my
shoulder,
a soft voice
breaks the spell.
“It’s time to go home,” it murmurs.
And I had thought
I was already there.