My summers were vinyl backseat burns

and seaweed afghan indents in my skin,

while my grandmother and I distanced ourselves

from apartment complexes and single-parent homes.

The ocean tucked itself

into my grandmother’s white curls

and crashed outside of her rainbow crochet beret.

The world blurred as I pressed my face against the window,

counting down the highway signs to the Oregon Coast.

She spent the trip counting boats

and watched sandpipers

skitter in and out of the waves.

I ran along the water’s edge,

chasing after seagull shadows

and collecting saltwater sparkles on my skin.

My grandmother taught me

how to find escape routes in agates.

She taught me to write my sadness in the sand

so the tides could pull away

the bullied shoves and mothered insults.

Her lighthouse smile served as a beacon

at the end of every school year.

I wanted to spend months at the beach with her,

letting her love catch in the bottom of my shoes

and watching the tides crashing within her eyes.

Her open arms beckoned me home.