John W. McEwers (6/20/1980 / Nova Scotia, Halifax)

Once we were one,
a family with unified hopes
united in vacation
to the beach on a sunny day.

The children made castles of sand
that slowly crumbled,
assaulted by a rising tide,
a kingdom eroded as the day grew old.

We piled into the car
as the first rays of nighttime
broke the sky into a panorama
of colorful clouds.

That car, Toyota Corolla,
the most reliable car I have ever owned
where we kissed and held hands at stop lights
was yours in the divorce.

It was the birthplace of dreams,
the setting for romance strong enough
for a blockbuster movie,
scripted in the sand from our children's feets.

You sold the car,
and I pray you sold it to a man
who doesn't own a vacuum,
so that the sand can live,
though we have died.