Sing of thin efficiency carpets, perpetually damp and gritty with years of salt
            and sand, of aggressively floral bedspreads concealing worn-out
            mattresses, of the creaky wheeled cot rolled in between the feet of double
            beds and scratched dressers, of the pallet on the floor crafted from extra
            motel blankets and the brown harlequin patterned quilt Mama packed for just
            this purpose, of the insistent nocturnal clanging of the ice machine outside our room.

Sing of the over-chlorinated hotel pools, stinging eyes and sunburn kissing the bridge of my
            sister’s nose, of window AC units creating cool, dark caves—crank it up ‘cause we
            don’t have to pay this electric bill—and the shiver of putting on a damp bathing
            suit to head back over the dunes, the chillwet price exacted for late afternoons
            on Bogue Shore under a sun that smiles instead of glares. 

Sing of lunches of pocketbook sandwiches assembled from the contents of Playmate
            coolers, washed down with Sundrop, of Pop-Tart breakfasts and blue Chilly
            Willies, cold grape soda that tasted just like purple, of every artificial thing,
            of that bare-butt Coppertone baby and the days we thought SPF 8 was responsible,
            of twenty agonizing minutes on shore until we could return to the sea, inept
            baby turtles bobbing beyond breakers in handmedown swimsuits, snorting
            gallons of saltwater.

Sing of sandy fingers throwing store-brand Cheez-Its to opportunistic gulls like
            the dingbatters we are, giggling as they squawk and circle closer, chasing
            them through sand that burns baby feet, of my mama’s Virginia Slims lit
            by matches from a yellow book, hands sheltering fragile flame from unrelenting wind. 

Sing of shells by the armload, dragged back to the motel in dollar store sand
            buckets with white handles, dumped on concrete motel sidewalks, of broken un-
            loveliness, tired conch exoskeletons worn soft and shapeless by years
            of tide-change, of the glinting sharp of newly broken oysters. 

Sing of the metallic taste of blood sucked from cut fingers, of the breeze that all
            day long blows three heads of girlhair into briny Gordian knots to be
            meticulously detangled in a bathtub full of sand and child limbs and shrieks
            turned snot and tears as comb teeth bite and tear at tangles and tender
            scalps.  Of being tucked in tight and “Now I lay me down to sleep”. 

And late, late night, when you wake up and roll over in your cozy pallet-bed, sing
            one more song, a lullaby, in a room like a womb with everyone you love most,
            frosty air and sliding glass door cracked open like you, the ocean, your sisters,
            and parents share for one night the same lungs, limbs, heart.  You are all
            here, whisper-close and whole, breathing together. 

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Kelly White Arnold (she/her) is a mom, writer, teacher, and lover of yoga. Her work has recently appeared in Petigru Review, Hellbender, and Reedy Branch Review.  She lives in the North Carolina Piedmont with her two favorite humans and one unhinged cat but dreams of mountains beneath her feet.  Her first chapbook, Decidedly Uncertain, is forthcoming from Finishing Line Press. 
You can find me on Instagram, BlueSky, and X @KArnoldTeaches .