The Old Note and The Sea

It was one of those days. In my little boat with the sea air filling my lungs. I was at peace.

Wait, no.

I’d been in the stuffy, suffocating office for hours. Pointless meetings about pointless stats and memos about “office supplies misuse”. Who’d be a stickler for staples and paper clips? Oh, I know. Moron Alan. Yes, Moron Alan capitalised for emphasis. The guy needs a life. But then. So do I. Since mother died after a long, soul-destroying battle with dementia, life felt heavy.

Each evening, I looked at my loathsome reflection and considered the merits of too many painkillers.

Each evening, I convinced myself mother would’ve been disappointed with me for giving in so easily. She was always able to get through to me.

So, in the office. Dreaming of the splash and spray of sea water on my face. Had always loved the sea. The freedom and unpredictability. Wanting to stab Moron Alan in the eyes with an augmented paper clip and staple abomination I’d been working on, like the ropes on a ship. The thought may have drawn a smile across my stern face. That and being home with sushi at my table and dreams of bidding the shore farewell.

Then, I’d leave, feel the breeze and the pressure shift, momentarily. Until it was replaced by pain at my front door.

Death and grief were the chaser I didn’t need for my purposeless life. So many “friends” reckoned a good roll in the hay or love was all I needed. I felt I should work on my own crap before inviting anyone else to share in it or bring their own crap to the table. Honestly, I also liked my table too much to share it. That table—the last thing mother bought me while she had semblance of sense left.

So, it means a lot. She said, “You need a good table, Malcolm. You don’t think you do. But you do.” I’m still not sure, but when I sit at the table, eating a large sushi platter for one, I won’t argue with how nice it looks or feels.

Have you noticed that before about tables—how they feel?

**

So, I was eating sushi, spicy, flavoursome dragon rolls and maki. I flipped through The Old Man and the Sea, again. Hemingway knew how to make suffering feel victorious. Maybe that’s why I kept reading it—at least Santiago had the sea. I stroked the table. Yes. Stroked the grains of the top, along the edge and then underneath. Solid oak connection to mother.

With the soothing hardwood on my fingertips, I felt the cold, treeless touch of paper on skin. I’d never noticed before but there was a note, under the table—the table that had been in my house for the last couple of years. It was probably nothing. Smelled of mother’s hand cream, though.

I unfolded it carefully, the edges still sharp. I figured it’d be something stupid.

But no, mother had left me a note.

“Only in our dreams are we free. The rest of the time we need wages.” - Terry Pratchett

I took a pause. Then sobbed. Feeling the pain I’d tried to store in my blackened heart. It was easier not to think about her. I’d done a good job of avoiding it. I’d stopped caring. Was just drifting.

Mum loved Terry.

She was right—even in death. She was like the Oracle, as all mothers should be. I needed purpose. I’d lost drive, my dreams, of sailing and exploring. It was time to leave land behind.

*

Thanks for reading!

Author's Notes: Word count according to Word was 600 on the dot. As soon as I read the prompt by LC for her mini challenge thing, and the Terry Pratchett quote, a song came to my mind. "Call Me Ishmael" by Get Cape, Wear Cape, Fly! It is a pretty little upbeat song with many a reference to Moby Dick. It also inspired the office setting for my MC and the sailing away.

Here are details of the challenge, there is still time to take part in it, so get a move on, if you haven't:

Here are links to the song:

Here is something else by me, less upbeat I'll warn: