Sunblock burn eyes, drip down lashes, collect in knee crease. Dock wood snags skin with splinters (remember me), sand sticks to body, a hundred little pebbles ground up & coughed out by shoreline— rose quartz sea glass conch shell peach pit compost.

Ocean roars louder than my dad when the wind plucks our umbrella, tosses it miles away. Seagulls cackle as he chases it down the beach, stolen Napoleon sugar on lolling leather tongues.

But when I tug mom’s hat over head, close eyes, let salt air soak my pores, I can hear Finn barking.

We took him to Atlantic Beach the day before he died. Now, no matter which boil we haunt, hear him splash through waves, bite at foam, jaw clicking, yipping— That’s him bumping into my calves, chasing lighthouse skyline.

He didn’t know he was never going to get there— it was stranded amidst the ocean. He never learned to swim, but still he tried, & I wish I was that fearless in the face of all my oceans, sunsets, vacuums, chocolate, cats, postmen, strangers, shock collars, nail clippers, leashes & lung tumors.

I’m not, but I can hear Finn barking,

looking back, head cocked, freckled white-brown shmuzzle lifted to the East &

I will follow him to ocean edge & back, again. Again. Again.