"Abalone" by Scottlynn Ballard

I

She is an abalone

Shell which at first may look unpolished and buried beneath a lot of sand. And among the jagged, large conchs

And in between sea dollars readying their soon-to-be-descnts

Into the sea, she

May at first look mundane and alone and

Overlooked from a distance.

But only if you stay so far away.

II

She doesn’t know it yet

But much of my life has been attributed to her

And in some universe

parallels and parallels away there is time where

I was never introduced. And if it is true,

That dreams are only brief visions of days that we never

Live in this life

But do, Somewhere Else

Then what a nightmare that would be,

For I wouldn’t be quite me without she.

III

Cleaning away all the sand and seaweed and grit

Off an abalone is the easy part.

They fall off with water, they never cling.

But the hardest is chinking away the armour

All the barnacle breastplates,

The walls between the world and inside are for her

Necessary and absolute.

And I, armed with an old chisel and even older hammer

Aimed to known down every one just as patiently as they were built.

IV

When we sat outside after Noises Off

And you decided to sit on my lap with Cass

Huddling beside to keep warm

I had given you my coat in hopes you’d stop shaking

At least not from the cold.

And for a moment I wondered quietly

If I left my heart is one of the pockets when I gave it to you.

Would you take it with you all the way to ISU

Would it sit on the shelf like a trophy all polished and

Pristine?

Would it fall out your hand on your way to grab your diploma?

Would you forget me?

V

By now I dare say I’ve knocked away the barnacles

The effort was well worth the time

Because she is full of colours I never thought a person

Should be.

Oil slicked blues bright and bold crash into lavender

Purple-pinks, crash again into faint golds, crash into my eyes

And my heart and my lungs like the sea

As marvelous as it is

Is it always ourselves we find in the sea?

VI

There is so little time left

Eight weeks seem so long until they are six

Until they are four

And two, and

Soon the halls will be emptied

And she will be whisked away

Cast off into the sea again

And it breaks my soul a little

Because I do not know how many have picked up this abalone

Just as long as I have

And I do not know if I will see her again

Although we say we will

She stands in front of me, beautiful

Imperfect

And I miss her already.

---

Photo Credit: Ms. Loesche