hannah nicole | 2009 - 2014

In the spring, the sky rips open.
Forget coats, forget shoes, we shriek like
chickens and scatter, running on the broken

grass that’s gray shale under our feet. A silent
ocean. We lived ten minutes away once, and

packed up the car daily. I wish I understood.
My sister and I ran to the waves. We burrowed

out tidepools with our small hands and
laid in the sand for hours, collecting shells,

watching them move from the animals inside.
The waves washed over us, warm and white.

A bubble bath, my sister said, and when
my mother looked away, we cupped the

water and drank it, choking on the salt.