Peg Bruhn and Amy Moffitt
Watercolor and water-soluble pencils on paper, 12 x 16 inches
Created using Amy Moffitt’s poem (below) as inspiration
By Amy Moffitt
The grey-white sand is underneath me,
coating my legs, arms, hands and feet,
in my hair, on my lips, crunching between my teeth.
I am breathing, eating, shedding sand.
For hours after being in the ocean,
I can still feel the push and pull of waves
–embracing, then rejecting–
can still feel their tension and release.
[For five days, I have not stopped thinking about you.]
The ocean is the Great Destroyer,
salt water corroding everything.
The sand I sit on is ground up shell and bone,
the remains of thousands disintegrated by the sea.
Despite the ocean’s careless cruelty,
I am happy to be slapped around by waves,
to throw myself again and again
into foaming white jaws that close down without mercy.
[For five days, I have thought of you and only you,
your face, hands, voice, surrounding me like a halo.]
Despite its careless cruelty,
the ocean is astoundingly beautiful.
I have sat for hours in silent delight,
contemplating the line where blue sky meets blue-green sea.
The breeze blows off the water.
I breathe it in deep and hold it in my lungs,
closing my eyes, and feeling it skitter across my skin.
I cannot put you out of my mind.
Acrylic and mixed media on stretched canvas, 24 x 24 inches
Inspiration piece provided to Amy Moffitt
By Amy Moffitt
Talk to me.
I know it has all come apart.
You don’t know who I am
or where you are.
I know, I know, I know you resent
the lady who bathes you in the mornings.
They told me you called her “nigger”
when she touched you last week.
(If I could slap you for that, I would.)
It amazes me how even your mind’s unraveling
has left your hatred intact.
But talk to me, Granddaddy,
before we lose our last chance
at feigning affection for one another.
Even now, as I witness lucidity
flickering in your eyes like a
black and white TV set at 2am…
Come back here for a second
And talk to me.
Tell me you’re afraid.
Tell me you’re alone.
Tell me you’ve wasted your life.
Tell me you never knew how to love.
But now, at the time of your unraveling,
Don’t descend into the dark without trying.
Don’t let me hate you even now
with the coldness of a stranger,
singing at your funeral, and feeling nothing.
Let them say you made amends.
Let them say that you finally showed love.
Let them say that you learned at the end
how to be a Grandfather.
Talk to me, Granddaddy.
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