One Liza

Yesterday the beach was junky and rough and spitting white yellow foam. No one in that wind with me. A broken hanger covered in barnacles. A shoe covered in barnacles. A rum bottle with no message. Part of a vacuum cleaner. And dead fish in profile. Some of them large, all tangled in sea weed. Dangerous jellyfish to step on. All so ugly I knew I would have to write about it. What is the ugliest word for ugly.

Tragic. And that was the day.

The first call came. Please pray. So I'm on my knees, palms together with a her baby picture. Dear God, please have mercy. Bring her strength. Lift her up. Cover her in love now and heal her. If you can do this one thing for us I promise... Send my love to Chicago and wrap her up in it. And please God make sure the doctors and nurses know what the fuck they are doing.

But they didn't have the chance. The second calls come and take our breath away. I'll never say I felt like I was hit by a truck again. One of our girls is gone. Our Liza. The first born. The brave and righteous one. On her bicycle. In an instant.

There is that fine sliver of time before we wake when we ask ourselves am I a boy or a girl. I am Eva. How old am I. I am all grown up. Who is in bed next to me. Thank God. We have our children. What day is it. It is a school day. It's time to wake up.  And then it washes over you. We've lost Liza.  Every morning from now on.

This morning I growl and roar louder than the water. Each time I keel over I pick up another shell. The same ridiculous deflated yellow birthday balloon is still here from yesterday blowing around on a tethered string. There are black buzzards eating the big fish and I can stare straight into the sun. Hearts breaking now, over and over. Can you feel us Liza. Can you feel how much you are loved. I find an amber glass bottle covered in barnacles and I will take it home and wash it and keep it on my vanity. Each time I put a flower in it, it will be for you. I've walked way past where I've been before. There are huge cement skeletal remnants of an old dock jutting into the chop. I have too much to carry. So a put my bottle and my shells on the highest pylon by the sea wall and go on and on.

Here is another amber glass apothecary bottle. Capped and full of white powder. I have to scream to get it open. I wonder if it is full of cocaine and if I can shove it all up my nose at once. But it smells sweet. I do what people do. I walk into the water and let it all blow away sideways. Magically void of any relief. I hauled back and threw it out deep because I have a really good arm.

I can see you Liza. You are held over a porcelain bowl being baptized.  David is lifting you up to show you what's on the other side of the fence. You are watching cartoons in your pajamas. Cecilia is giving you and Lauren a bath together. You are dancing in the basement. You are in a tree. You are in the top bunk in the dark listening to the radio. You are tickling Max. You are wearing eye shadow for the first time. You are becoming a beautiful woman. Downtown is yours. You laugh all the time. You speak french. And you get tattoos without permission from anyone and I haven't seen them yet. The whole Giving Tree on your back. I wanted to come for a visit and touch it. To hear you tell me all about that. To tell me all about everything. I've missed everything. So much love left unspoken. Unshared. Lost. Please turn back now.

My pile of shells is gone. Washed away. Impossible. Where is my Liza bottle. Please give it back! Please give back my Liza bottle. The white blanket of foam finally recedes far enough and it's there and I run in and grab it up and hold it close and I can't breath. Can you feel me Liza.

Time to go now. There is a bright blue boogie board leaning against the cement. I know it wasn't there before. It's big and it's for me. So I carry it under my arm all the way back. Just one more weeping shell. One bottle. Our one Liza.