Seaside Visitation.

Your grandchildren play in the sea, splashing and screaming as the water chills.

You watch as you sit on the stone wall, your feet on the sand.

Anny stands staring out at the broad horizon, her ghostly hand above her brow

to keep out the sun’s bright glare, her small phantom feet touching the beach, far from the water’s reach.

She hears the playful screams, and ventures on down between the crowds who occupy the sands with chairs and towels and windbreaker walls.

She waits and gazes at your grandchildren’s play, her blonde hair and bow touched by the sun’s glow.

You watch her as stands there rooted in the sands, knowing none see her as you do now, her hands resting behind her back, seemingly in deep thought,

she wanders along the beach, her eyes taking in the seaside show, her profile captured by the sun’s warm kiss.

She turns and looks at you, knowing that you see her there, smiling she waves a hand, then she’s gone from sight, as once before in Auschwitz’s hold she went.

Nothing now but the sea sound and grandchildren’s laughter and sea air and Anny’s scent.

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