East Island Coastal Communion by Chenoa Van Sickle

Abruptly my concentration is broken by a shriek. My daughter runs back and forth at the icy edge of the dark wet sand, giggly at her footprints and screaming as the freezing froth catches her toes. I remember my grandmother watching me race the waves back then. I remember she walked in to the water the same way she walked to the alter for communion. Now, I understand the parallel.

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