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.