selkie

Late afternoon, I run. Running away. Running on through to the sea

I miss my grandmother.

She won swimming competitions, waltzing competitions, she'd tell us, she was the fastest, the most beautiful, the most desired. Our grandfather, she'd tell us, was the strongest, the fastest, the most handsome.

Ballai, ballamo
We danced, she'd say.

Dancing with another is something that I
have rarely mastered: the coordination, the abandon
beyond me.

Ballai, ballamo
We danced, she'd say, and throw her arms out, up
around an imaginary neck, nestle
her head
on broad shoulders
close her eyes and, humming a waltz, let herself be spun across the floor adrift
in her memories.

You've inherited your mother's dancing genes, they say, as we are always the last to leave, lost alone on the dance floor. Eyes shut, spinning without arms strong enough, skilled enough to hold us.

We've inherited our dancing genes I say, as I whirl with abandon. They are my Nona's.

I run on, shed seven shimmering tears, lost to the light of the silvery sea.