there are a thousand beginnings for one word

One evening a long time ago, I was on the upper deck of the ferry which was taking me home to my old island cottage. I was just a little thing back then, with chopped-up hair and eyes only for the faraway horizon. I lived with one lovely, gentle black cat and far too many books and vinyl records.

My mother had shrugged her shoulders, months before, and said if being a beach witch was what I wanted to be, instead of a teacher or a business woman, she simply hoped it made me happy. I believe she secretly thought I was throwing away my youth on tangled forests and a lonely broken shore, but she was good enough not to say so.

I wasn't exactly happy, truth be told, and it took me years to understand that the experience was about growing roots and stories for the long term, not happiness for that season.

But that evening, on the boat, in the deepening sky, I was happy. A man came to talk with me, and the conversation he was trying to have was another thing I needed years to comprehend. I half-listened, and I watched the horizon fling stars like promises into the island dark, and I believed that, by looking so hard and heartful at the world, I was weaving a memory for myself.

Of course, what I was actually weaving was myself.


2 comments:

  1. Oh! That last line tugged at my heartstrings. I have so often felt myself looking so hard and heartful at the world, drinking in the smells and sounds, desperately trying to weave a lasting memory... in that lonely, lovely last sentence you have forever illuminated a corner of my soul <3 It is like someone just read me the missing coda to a forever loved Aesops fable

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    1. i am so glad :-) i can not take the credit, though. this wrote itself.

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