We Released a Sea Turtle Today
In Memory of Michael Joseph Westergren
It did not hurry. The waves waited.
It moved with slow resolve, across sand
that burned underfoot, toward a home
it never stopped carrying inside itself.
Not once did it turn back. It breathed the air,
as all sea turtles must. Like a promise held
too long, then finally, let go.
We watched the tide claim it one breath,
its shape folding into water, as if
it had never been anything else.
They say Kemp’s Ridleys nearly disappeared,
strangled by nets they couldn’t see, forgotten
by systems they trusted.
Still, they returned.
Still, they nested.
Still, they swam.
So did Mike, a man with a heart, opened, twice
once by scalpel, once by grief and closed again
only after it had poured out everything.
He knew the way back: to Corpus, to family,
to sand and sky and song. He breathed deeply
when he could, and fiercely when he couldn’t.
He wore no armor but a bowtie, spoke plainly,
and judged justly.
Even in silence, he saw clearly. Even when weak,
he walked strong. A man who could sculpt stone,
soften it with his hands. Who argued with precision,
then bought breakfast for a friend.
A judge. A husband. A grandfather.
A servant. A navigator.
We released a sea turtle today.
And in that rising tide, we saw Mike
not gone but returned.
To water.
To breath.
To God.
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