When I am no longer here,
you’ll hear my voice
from a homeless shell
found like an abandoned
shoe upon the shore
where once we played
and learned to sing.
You’ll hear my voice
as you hear now
these wayward waves
that will lift you up
and leave you broken here
to sing with me
the dying song
of the undying sea.
My friend Charles sent me this reflection on the poem:
A story—brought up from the fond depths of memory by your poem:
Once, decades ago, Pauline and I were walking on a sandy beach in Mexico. In my edited re-call, there was nothing I could hear or see but the sea, sand, and Pauline. Then I spied an unusual conch shell. In local shell shops, you can buy lovely, lacquered (and almost perfect) conch shells. Almost perfect, but quite devastatingly defiled by the sea-farmers who grab the shell, punch a hole in a special spot, stab a knife through that hole, and slice away the link between occupant, home, and life. The hunter then pulls out the flesh and sells it to a roadside cafe for tourists’ pleasure. What could have become a trumpet now will only leak air.
But this shell! I had never seen one like it. There was no death-hole and no sharp points. It had been rolled around by the waves over the abrasive sand for who-knows how long. But it was no ordinary conch shell. As I lifted it out of the sand, I saw something I could never have dreamed of finding. The tip end was missing and I could peer through that hole straight into the spiral staircase of this former housing project. The aperture was the shape and size of a trombone’s mouthpiece. Rinsing off the sand, I put to my lips what clearly was a musical instrument and blew a stunning note first heard since Triton himself played it last. The sound began as a bark and became an extended urgency in D.
I keep it here on the deck table where it is close to the water (unsalted) and perhaps may itself have memories of ancient ocean shores. When I release its voice by the lake, echoes return it from all shores––including those of memory––and, because my throat is aching, resonating from that undimmed recovery of sea, sand, and … love.
* * * * *
I look forward to the next time that we chat on FaceTime when you can see and hear Triton’s horn for yourself (and Ber)
Full disclosure: a lifted edge still remained where the head had broken off. I played it as it was (apparently, Triton was not bothered by the inconvenience ), and I ignored the slight pain until we returned home, where I had a proper sander.