What could you say about the sea if you’re an islander?
It’s always there, around and beyond us: churning and receiving; washing up all the dead stuff of the world: sunken histories, green bottles with messages of lost ambitions, the loves we abort and throw away. On Sunday afternoons our islanders come down to the beach; they show off bathing costumes and muscles; they gleam and splash about like carefree porpoises; then, salty-skinned, with sand in their hair, they turn their backs on it and go home.
What could you say about old ladies if you’re an islander? They’re always among us, in straw hats and headkerchiefs, beneath and beyond us like ancestral graves. On Sunday mornings our old ladies go to church. They startle you in their starched church clothes many decades behind the times. If you stop to say, “Hello Aunt B.”, they lift their bowed heads; trembling fingers of memory reach for your face; they squint at you, then smile, for they’d seen you coming long before you had arrived; and they ask about your mother.
These days, of course, I know better.
Old ladies are somebody’s mother and somebody’s grandmother. They’re not waiting to die. They are dreaming souls, lighthouses to so many ships, ancient and new, adrift in the world.
As for the sea, it’s the last resting-place for the useless and the used; for skeletons and bones that rattle only what is real; a place for sunken vessels stripped of vanity riggings. You could step off our island and cross over seas, the way you cross borders from France into Spain, or Canada into the USA.
And you could call me caretaker of the sea.
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