Here’s where we saw it, Mom said
as she gestured with the arm
that wasn’t leaning on mine.
We were walking slowly on the path
by the lake. Peeking through the pines
was a small blue triangle.
She looked at me expectantly.
We had seen the green flash years ago,
several times, on the beaches at Del Mar
and Torrey Pines—brighter than a traffic light,
swallowed by the Pacific in a mere second.
I opened my mouth to say, No,
not here, we didn’t see
the green flash here.
But I couldn’t.
Sun, sea and physics make a minor miracle.
How do you tally the bounty of blessings
you did nothing to deserve—
they rain on you without number.
The wind brushed back a thin curtain of boughs.
Mom said, Right here, and paused us.
Remember? Right here.
I haven’t seen a green flash since.
I think I am unworthy.
Catamaran Literary Reader, Summer 2023