Twice a year I make the trip back home as summer opens on the town

Coming down Route Six
by Head of the Meadow
I am faced with an image more me
than the reflection
each morning
in the glass above
my bathroom sink

No wonder
I no longer look in the mirror
to see myself
           I am not there
I am in these steel green waters
fronting the skyline of my past

As the road flattens out by East Harbor
The stretch of dunes offers a calm
knowing that our father’s ashes have been blowing
within those sands some thirty years now

The harbor moves to the memory of the day
all five siblings carried his ashes
slowly across the desert-like hills
single file against a setting sun
feet pressed deeply into the dunes
with each silent step

What was left of him filled
the black beret he always wore
which we carried that day with reverence
passing it amongst ourselves on our march

Once we reached the highest dune we formed a circle
Eldest son the first to blow the old ram’s horn
As it wailed he let go his fist of ashes
Next my reached into the beret…held and let go

Then the second sibling, the fourth, and finally
the youngest child
the one who carries seven family names
let her handful of ashes blow in the wind
                        and the final moan from the ram’s horn
                              carried him away