Sandbanks (For Caleb, Haille, Alex and Erin)

Eight feet press tracks into wet sand,
attempt to race
waves that lick salt water tongues
at tiny toes
and the boy’s shoes are already soaked.

Sneakers kicked errantly into
piles of sun-dried seaweed,
the girls are skipping up the beach.

Her blonde hair flies out in disarray,
strands stuck to her mist dampened face.
An overcast day, cold for late June.
Our beautiful Newfoundland summer.

But she doesn’t feel the weather;
only sand
water
the scent of ocean.

The smallest stumbles
over sea worn driftwood.
Runs to catch up
kicking sand backwards in golden arcs.

The oldest stops,
crouches to examine tidal tokens
half buried.
The purple blue of muscle shells,
the spine covered fragility of sea urchins.

Barefooted they wade into waves,
catch breath in their throats
as the cold of sea
prickles warm skin,
drifts over sand to erase footprints.

The boy has kicked off his wet sneakers,
now walks in damp socks that collect sand
as he collects rocks and shells.

They fill jacket pockets,
make pouches of their shirts
to fill with mementos of this experience
to place amongst their child’s treasures at home.

Seeds

When I get up you aren’t on the couch watching cartoons.
The front door is ajar and you are outside
digging with a kitchen spoon,
still clad in cartoon pyjamas,
an apple core in your little hand.

Your kindergarten class is learning about seeds.
Bean sprouts grow tall out of a Styrofoam cup with
“Caleb” printed in blue crayon across the side.
You pick up all the pinecones you see and tell me that
trees will grow from them.

You tell me you are planting the seeds from your apple.
I tell you that apple seeds might not grow in the shade of the house,
from earth more rock and clay.
You tell me you don’t mind,
there are always apples in the fridge.
What you want is the tree.
You explain plans for a luxurious tree house.

Later that day we sit at a table for two.
You drink root-beer from a child-sized paper cup
and we eat hamburgers and fries covered in ketchup.
You pick the sesame seeds off the bun,
examine them,
and with a flash of excitement in your eyes,
clench your fist around them.
Staring intently into my face
you ask:

If I plant these seeds will a hamburger tree grow?

I am careful not to laugh.
You hate not being taken seriously,
and your face is too earnest in its wonder.
I take a sip of my cola,
pondering your question.
I don’t want to lie to you,
but looking into your eyes
I have entered your world,
and maybe hamburgers can grow on trees.

I tell you that I don’t really know,
that maybe we should plant the seeds.
You wonder whether the tree will produce
Cheese burgers or regular hamburgers.
You’re pretty sure that you’ll have to add your own ketchup.

At home you drop the seeds in a hole you scratch
in the dirt next to where you planted
your apple seeds this morning,
your pinecones yesterday,
your peach pit last week.

I hope that hamburger seeds are resilient,
that they will sprout through this tough and rocky soil,
that they are able to germinate
in this harsh Newfoundland climate.

For My Boy

Excitedly you pull on a baseball cap and run outside
to play with the boys in the backyard
But within the hour
you are back at our door for the first time today
tears washing clean paths down your dirty cheeks

You remind me of my brother

When he was four and I was seven
he would come home with this same striped face
and I would go and fight his battles
All shoving and head-locks and fists-in-guts
until his tormentors left him alone

But now you are four and I am much older

You were born without a sister
to beat the pint sized bastards
that have labeled you a sooky
because you cry when they pinch you
or steal your toys and break them

You are not one of these baby brutes

The best I can do for you is talk to the mothers
who spout "Boys will be boys"
And I feel like shoving and head-locks and fists-in-guts
because it is not their sons who come home crying
but grown ups don't do those sorts of things

Instead I cradle your head to my stomach

I run my fingers through your fuzzy summer hair cut
feeling the grains of sand stuck in your hair
and when you stop crying I send you back outside
with my permission to fight
and a fistful of Mr. Freeze

But you don't fight

Instead you share your treat
and let them take all the good flavours
The blues and reds and whites
all the ones that you like
leaving you with the peach and lemon and grape

But you are happy to belong again

At bedtime I give you good night kisses
and smell the dirt and sun on your skin
Read you stories until you fall asleep
and love that you are different than them
but hope that tomorrow your face stays dirty.