Betsy Saneholtz

Our seal skin was stolen long before I was born.
My great great grandmother took it off
to bask in the sun on a rock, 
feel her human shape warm.

A man who wanted her, took the skin,
knowing, if he hid it well, she would be his,
tied to the land, severed from the sea.

She cried and railed,
demanded and kicked, 
seduced and cajoled.

He never gave it back.
She never found it.

At least he didn’t beat her, she told herself.
At least she was alive.

Children were born and the generations grew.
Great Grandmother, Grandmother, Mother.

Farther and farther drifted
the memory of the sea,
the seal skin, the ability to swim.

So when I was born
I didn’t know I wasn’t whole.

While I searched for the skin I didn’t know,
my soul was open and raw.
So I made new skin to ease my pain,
out of scraps I was given, scraps that I found.

Sometimes the pieces laid in a pattern
like a quilt,
so others weren’t afraid of not knowing what I was. 
Girl, Daughter, Sister, Student.

Other times, the pieces were slapped on urgently
after someone convinced me I wasn’t enough.
Bride, Wife, Mother, Friend.

The scraps have changed
sloughed off or added to.
But none are the one 
that makes me whole.

None are the one that was 
stolen so long ago.

None are the one
I never felt
warm in the sun.
Waiting for me somewhere.

Waiting for me
to return to the sea,
whole.