we were walking on the beach

that i spent my childhood summer years at -

my family divided between new jersey and florida

- the beaches as divided between occupying states -

but this beach was my beach, this beach was the one far from home that felt more like home

where the shark’s teeth were bigger

and fill more of your jar

and the rain came every day at three o’clock, alerting you it was lunch/dinner time and you went back home, rinsed the sand off, ate a meal together, and then slunk your wet bathing suits back on and walked back to the beach for the sunset

and i felt like i was five years old again

and i was - besides the beer in my hand (it was root when i was a kid) but my father and i still tossed a football like we used to, we still filled a jar with those

frequent and larger shark’s teeth, and we still stayed until nightfall after supper

but this time my grandmother wasn’t with us

and she wasn’t in their house, which was visible

from our beach

and she wasn’t cooking beer can chicken

while we swam in the ocean

or filling water balloons for us

or following the shade with her beach chair

i never got to drink with her

so i raised my beer towards her now vacant house

and drank with the ghosts on our beach