On The Drift

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I get good at going nowhere. I settle in. I keep a log of what this time is like on my island. I send letters to yours. Time was always measured by the tide, but now it’s the days we count differently. I plant seeds in egg shells and water them in the windowsill. One sprouts the tiniest green and I have an overwhelming sense of pride that I cannot akin to anything else I have done. I have narrowed my focus.

I used to have a boyfriend who got a tattoo over his heart that read backwards, live an honest life. This way when he looked in the mirror he could read it. I hated to admit back then how similar him and I were. How alike we were, growing up next to one another all those years; fed by the same waters.

Lately, we talk about windows. We talk about what is outside your window and what I watch outside my window, and how the world is the same right now even in different places. We get familiar with the square footage, the air ducts, the crack along the wall. We make peace and fret in the same moment. We are tongue tied, and tired, and restless. We are still here.

I am less desperate for something else. I feel like someone set out to sea – knowing we will arrive on another shore, but not when. And we have less else than the stars to guide us. I feel the rock of the boat, but it doesn’t keep me up, rather it now puts me to sleep.

I go for walks and there is no one out. Early in the morning a fog burns off and a car rolls by. A dog barks, a baby cries, and the wisteria hangs swollen and over bloomed in the alleyways. Everything has an expiration. Even this. It’s becoming clear we’ve got a lot to give up, and on the good days I’m okay with this. Sometimes, even through the fog, I can see the shore and I greet with open arms a new life.


image by: @zakbeauvois

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