Pearl
I never liked the sea.
The roar of the storms, the stench of the water, and the breathtaking cold as it struck my skin and bit into my bones. Everyone here loved the sea, their harsh mistress, but me.
Give me the warm days along softer shores with white sand silken between my toes; the lap of the waves, caressing the earth and carrying it back home with them in an endless circle of mild tides; our beautiful lake, great in size and name.
You don’t understand, the others have told me, the gifts of the abundant sea. She gives us our food and trade; our very livelihoods. But be gentle with her for what she gives, she also takes away. I never argued because they’re right; I don’t understand.
On the pebbled shore, her song roared in my ears and the gulls cried out their harmonies. I don’t understand you, I shouted in my mind, squinting into the stinging winds. You’re so large, so vast – so much.
The waves, icy cold, washed over my bare feet. Driftwood, rocks and shell fragments littered the beach behind me. I’m trying, I wanted to scream into the sky, but I missed the shores of home so very much.
Why did I ever come here?
Wet sunlight shone on the driftwood log and I sat to warm myself. Sharp pain shot through the toes I’d burrowed into gravely sand and I set to work extracting the offender.
A small box with sharp rusted edges and nestled within, a pearl on a tarnished chain. The pearl pulsed warmly in my palm and the warm softness of lost days wound around me. I smiled shyly at the water, at the sky, for my gift.
She knew my heart and I didn’t need to understand.
Eastern Passage, Nova Scotia (c) 2011-2013 Chris Fitzner
