My Two Feet

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My Two Feet

My Two Feet (a story)
What do you feel?

I feel rocks and broken shells. They feel sharp.

Go deeper into the soft mud.

Yes, I feel it. No more shells now, all mud.

Good. This is where you will find them. Dig your foot around. What
do you feel?

I feel something hard, but it’s too big and irregular and bumpy.

Do you remember what they feel like?

I think so?

Did you forget \?

No, I think I will remember when I feel one.

Yes, I hope so.

Wait!

What?

There! I feel one. I can make out the shape with my toes. There are
ridges on the surface. It feels round and even, disk-like. It’s a
clam. I’m sure of it. I did not forget. You see? I do remember.

Where are you?

I’m in Northport Bay.

How old are you?

I’m 11.

What do you see?

I see my father over there. He has a wicker bushel basket floating
in the middle of a tire inner tube and the basket is almost full with
clams. I see my grandfather on the beach and his wooden boat,
painted green, anchored just off the shore.  My grandfather has
thick, white hair and strong, tanned arms. It is low tide and he is
digging with a shovel for sand worms, which we will use to catch
flounders.

What do you see?

I see my daughter, Julianne, standing on the beach, sunning
herself.

Where are you?

I’m in Conscience Bay, with my niece, Jackie. We’re digging clams
with our feet. It’s low tide.

How old are you?

I’m 47.

Where are you going?

I’m going home now.

I’m so glad you remembered.

I never forgot.

Thank you for being there to help me.

Goodbye, now.

Goodbye.

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To have great poets there must be great audiences too.

Walt Whitman, American Poet (1819-1892)

MikeDomino’s Poems (108)

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