The Dick and Jane Primer of Parental Grief

I open memory to gut it.  
My dad empties out to a red sea. 
I can’t swim.  He never taught me. 
The tide flows to the shore and I am saved. 
I now see my father floating submerged face down. 
He bloats purple.  I think he’s dead. 
The waves beat furiously against his body. 
I suppose his eyes fleck nightmares. 
He always threw my seashells into the sea.
Because of him I am a small creature 
caught fully in time’s trap.

I open memory to clean it.
My mom empties out to a blue sea.
I can swim because she taught me.
The tide flows and I swim to shore safely.     
I now see my mother floating freely face up.
She floats so white.  I know she lives.
The waves flow so fluidly around her body. 
I know her eyes flecked my big dreams.
She let me sell my seashells on the seashore.
Because of her I am a big creature 
freed fully from time’s trap.