The rules are
Simon says do
what you’re told
but listen closely
or you’re out.
The hesitation comes later.
I’m alone on the shore, knee-deep,
questioning what I think I hear:
the moon commanding the tide
to shift soft sand underfoot,
the lapping sea beckoning
“Take a step, take a step.”
My lost love! Wait
wait.
We built our castles in the sand
and now little Simon walks beside me
coming from ice cream
and the summer sun.
Simon says
he likes the game because he’s always Simon.
His tiny steps are buoyant and free.
He lives each day inside
a joyous moment
outside of time and tide.
He has yet to hear the cacophony
from within and without,
of commanding voices
saying what to do,
what could have been done,
should have been done
while I hesitated,
and he cannot know
how close I have come
to drowning.
And yet
at a moment when
the sand has shifted
and I am again
beneath the screaming blackness
Simon says
without speaking:
a sudden, unexpected touch
of his fragile, loving hand
as he reaches up to hold mine,
and we continue through the quiet
of his skipping step
and the whispering sea.