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by Wilda Morris Remember, Missy, that summer we spent by the sea when we were seventeen? The medieval buildings—museums, stores and homes— painted in gold, burnt sienna, pink and green. The waves we romped in swept away time as we suntanned, picnicked, tossed a Frisbee on the beach until the wind blew the disk out of reach. We splashed in breakers, searched for shells, and swam. Missy dearest, the sea has come to claim that stretch of coast. Buildings along the shore might as well be the sand castles we so carefully constructed, then abandoned to the rising surf, the tides, directed by the moon that rose as we sat on a bench, watched descending sun paint water pink. They look like ghosts now, with hollow eyes. Another kind of night is falling as the glaciers melt and oceans rise. What we once loved will soon be just a memory, and all the friendly folk there who smiled at our attempts to speak their language will have no words to speak the sorrow that they feel.
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