Molly Crenshaw

My father took me down to the beach the day the whales washed up
Globicephala macrorhynchus-- forty-two of them
They lay there in the withering August sun
Jet black and beginning to bake
Heaving as their lungs slowly collapsed under their own weight

Others lay still as Daddy picked his way around their immobile bulks with me riding high on his shoulders
The tide had crept in that morning and drowned some of the whales as they lay foundering
Beached there on the shores of a cruel universe filled with sand and sky and blazing heat

There's a picture of me from that day
Snapped by my father as he watched me whispering softly to one of the whales, unaware

My red hair is streaming behind me in the wind
My small hand caressing the whale's side as I murmur words of comfort
Confident as only a six-year old can be in my power to heal

Today that photo sits on my desk in the marine biology department
Sometimes, when discussion of research and labwork and grants becomes tedious
My eyes wander to it

I think of my father, standing out of sight behind the camera,
watching over me as he always did

I think of him laying there in the hospital bed toward the end
My hand caressing his cheek as I murmur words of comfort 
Quietly singing my whale song to him