by Lisa Lowdermilk

On March 3, 1995,
I sat beneath a blanket
at my grandma’s house
in Colorado Springs.

Snowflakes tumbled out of the sky like
sequins pouring
out of the ripped seam
of a dress.

Grammy was reading
to me from National Geographic
about baby sea turtles.
Adult sea turtles
swim thousands of miles to
lay their eggs on the shore where
they were born. They dig
a hole in the sand, lay
their eggs, bury them, and swim
back to sea, leaving
all their babies behind.

I thought of the time when I
buried myself in sand
and nearly drowned in its gritty grasp.
Each grain clung to my body like
the sucking mouth of a lamprey.

But then the sand sea parted,
as Mom scooped me free.
I shook the sand loose
and stared into the spiraling
pinwheel of sunshine.

I looked at Grammy
and waited for her to
tell me the babies would be
all right. Instead, she
simply shut National Geographic
and gave me a glass of grape
juice. My hands shook as
I sipped, causing me to
spill it on my white sweatshirt.

The maroon stain spread rapidly,
seeking to swallow my sweatshirt whole.
I watched Grammy struggle to wipe it
off and wondered when I
would have to part the sand sea
alone.

Lisa Lowdermilk is majoring in English at the University of Colorado Denver.  She hopes to see the Great Barrier Reef, the Northern Lights, and every natural phenomenon in between.