It wouldn’t be so hard if not for the sea, just right there, just over the rise. I can hear it, pounding into the shore, disintegrating shells, whoosh in whoosh out. Breathing. Calling me into the waves, into the break. Taste its grim reminders through my nose, onto my tongue.

The ghosts of mothers taking care and Jesus keep me in the hills, tending black sheep. The path is cut, between boulders and cliffs, bluffs of extra fine sand. Man-cut. It’s not a place for daughters’ skirts that snag on brambles, that rip when stepped upon.

Dinner finds me beside Mother, cooking heavy food that stays long in the stomach. After, the same things every night: dishes and baths and lullabies. I sing songs into and over the black sheep, the one who hears but doesn’t listen. His eyelashes flutter in his pretense of sleep. By moonlight, he’ll rise from this warmed bed of clean linen and down pillows. He’ll run the path naked, heeding the voice in the surf and its incessant whisper.

Now is the time to do what I have to. If there were no sea, I wouldn’t have to do this. But there is. Right there, it is. And here: in my ear, my nose, my mouth. In all the places no one knows yet. In all the places maybe I never want them to know, heart and guts. Tonight’s midnight swim is mine. Sleepy chemical fumes put him into real sleep.

The path isn’t easy, even without skirts. The sand has blown in and covered the rocks. My bare feet slip, are cut. Finally, the water kisses at my ankles, soothing the cuts and bruises. Slow bit by slow bit the sea touches me, covers me. When the first frothy wave submerges my head, I hold my breath. I listen. In the moment when sound is all there is, I absorb the message.

--When you need me, I’ll be here--

Walking home is fraught with the same shifting sand, more injuries. The sea dries on my skin, salty. My under things grow cold in the wind. Sneaking back through the window, I hear the hush of voices sleep-breathing, Father’s snore. In the dark, I dump grains of coffee into a filter. I can’t find rest yet. I slice bacon. In this predawn, the slices fall away from the hunk easier than they ever have.