Parson’s Beach
Parson’s Beach
The Maine tide drifts in slowly on Parson’s Beach
just off Route 9 on the way into Kennebunkport proper.
It always drifts in slowly,
and that summer day in 1983
was no exception.
Like my baby brother and me,
entirely unencumbered by the world’s weight,
tidewater rose in the ridges
formed by the orbital motion of the sea
to create tiny sandbars
that still span the width and breadth of my memories.
In my nine-year-old mind, those sandy sworls were
islands
we navigated with childhood stealth,
lest we be marooned.
Hand in hand,
our lanky limbs swam the summer’s salty air.
We leapt over tidal rivers,
a determined and dramatic dance.
Our giggles rose high above where the ‘spelicans flew
and landed at the sandy feet of our folks
who sat unflappable in the midst of our chaos,
our orbital commotion.
Their elbows grazed when our mother turned the pages of her book
while Dad dozed, his face to the sun.
Even at nine, I smiled knowing without knowing
we were moored by strong anchors,
my baby brother and me,
free to yaw
in our own orbital motion,
knowing we’d never be
marooned;
never lost from
all we knew.
