The Sea

The land was one hundred and twenty six miles at its longest and fifty six miles at its widest. The sea was always there. Massive and mythical and generous and unconquerable. We didn’t have much but, even when we’d forget her, she’d always be there. Today, atop a hill, I looked out as far as I could see. My disappointed eyes had taken it for granted that she’d always be there, but some things are just too big and can only be smuggled into the future in snippets of memories. But surely she must be out there somewhere in any distance that far thought my disbelieving eyes.

. . .
But there was no sea.

. . .
I can’t look through my evening window from that mountain and see her off in the distance. The ships that would have her. Hear their profane but beautiful calls echo within the walls of those mountains. I can’t pass by, as I would, and marvel at her visitors making their daily pilgrimage, their black hair now red from her salty brine. No, I can’t visit her today and relive that Sunday morning Osmond tried to teach me to be in harmony with her, not to fear her. No, today I remember only the taste of her through my drowning nostrils. The palpable sense of something forever lost. Today the sea offers no comfort to me but taunts me as it did the dog who threw away his bone for a bigger dream.

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