With The Sea

All she wants is peace.


Even just a little bit.


But her melancholy is engraved in her skin like a scar. And it is far too deep to heal.


“Time is a healer.”


That awful phrase she despises. Banging on her eardrums each time they fill with fluid.


"Time is a healer." They say.


Time may grow skin over her scars so that they are no longer as raw.


But, she hurts.


Each time she looks at them, she remembers how they got there. And how it felt.


Time is not a healer.

When she arrived barefoot on the sand, she is not quite sure.


It all happened so rapidly.


Lately, she has not felt in control of her body. Life moves her where she must be.


And she lets him.

Her clothes are as loose as the waves in her hair. As the waves in the sea. Attempting to appear carefree and relaxed, she hopes she can convince herself that she truly is. That the sand in between her toes does not frustrate her. The way the wind blows her hair to restrict her view does not bother her.

And, despite being alone, she is not lonely.

Of course, it is all a lie.


So, she writes how she feels on paper.

Standing still, with a pen in her hand. As the darkness of her words increases, she places the cap on her pen and continues to walk holding an unfinished poem in her palms.

What could make me happy? She wonders.


Perhaps happiness is too grand of an ask. Far too ambitious.


What is it that would make her feel something?


Something other than the heaviness of her grief that weighs on her heart and her feet?

It is the pinnacle of autumn – her favourite time of year.


The sun has begun resting for hibernation, hence the sparsity of visitors to the beach. The darkness that approaches as the year concludes makes other people depressed. But, she loves the gloom of this time. For it is the only time of year when the population feel like her.


Only, her depression does not change with the seasons.

Each crevice of her visit has been carefully constructed to reach her goal. Peace.


To warm her soul and fingertips, she approaches the wooden shack at the top of the sand and purchases a hot chocolate.


With cream. With marshmallows.


'Please, may you make it with love?’ She asks the man behind the counter.

Only in her head, of course.

Returning to the sand blanket, she sits cross-legged. Clutching the warm drink in her lap.


First, the marshmallows are individually indulged.


Then, the cream is slurped, unashamedly.

At last, she sips the simplicity. Watching the waves gently caress the shore. Too sweet, it is. Far too sweet to bear.


Rolling a single tear down her cold cheek. It falls into the liquid to subtle the sweetness and taste more habitual.

Once again reaching for paper and ink, she attempts to finish what she started.


Unfortunately, the tears are collective. Thunderous and present.


Now her words are blurred and her drink is too salty.

I must be somewhere my tears are not a burden, she thinks. Somewhere they do not alter the flavour of life and the effort of others. Somewhere so big that I simply merge.


Finally, becoming a part of something.

Leaving the steamed drink on the cool sand, she slowly rises. One granular foot in front of the other. Towards the sea.


The sea has always terrified her. Unknowing of its complexity.


And beauty.

Many moments she has spent wondering what life could be like amongst it. What it could look like. How it could feel.

Leaving her fears and concerns at the shore, she allows her sadness to lead the way.


Her motivation for a better life. For herself. And for the ones she loves.
Salt washes the sand from her feet. As Mother Nature’s tears loosen her curls even more. Holding her poetry to her heart, she walks until the water reaches her ankles. Her knees. Her waist.


Then, her shoulders.


Inhaling deeply, with a slight shake. Closing her eyes, she falls for the sea to catch her. Holding her like a drowning flower. Like a baby.

Like a feather.

At last, her heartbeat steadies.


Opening her eyes, she is greeted with a ceiling of muted grey. Mother's tears falling onto her bare face.


‘Do not cry, Mother.’ She says. ‘I feel okay. Look at me, Mother. I am floating.’


Waves crash against her eardrums, muzzling the noise of life.


And her clothes sway in the direction of her chocolate hair.

Suddenly, her tears are not a burden.


They do not alter the flavour of life and the efforts of others. For her grief is washed with a power as dense as hers.


A pain as dense as hers.


Now.


Now her tears are no longer salty.

Time is unaware at this moment.


Though, the increasing shadows in the sky seem to indicate her welcome has been overstayed.


Mother is crying heavily now.


She is aware that nothing could be said to restrict her waterfall. So, she drowns in her pain.


Muffled sound waves reach her as pounds of thunder and screams of people.


Her head does not tilt to see the group of people collected at the shore.


Get out! Get out! A storm is coming!

Though, she knows this already.


Her Mother's reaction to her mission was forecasted.


Each crevice. Carefully constructed to reach her goal.


Get out of the water!


Mother is screaming now, too.


Get out! Get out!


‘I am sorry, Mother.’ She says aloud. ‘I am sorry to hurt you. Not only in this moment. I am sorry for your past and future grief. I love you, Mother.

'I love you, Mother. I do. I am tired now.’


Her eyes fall shut, ‘Take me to him, please.’


With a final roar of pain, her body is swallowed by the storm and sea. And, her soul has risen beyond the sky.

Finally, peace has been found.

Forever.