Wednesday, May 18, 2011

Beach vs Forest

I'm standing on the beach watching the waves crash at my feet. There is more light in the sky or maybe I've lifted my head up enough that my eyes are becoming more aware of the world around me. 

I've been walking up and down the beach for ages now.  Walking by the spot where I landed that night.  You'd have thought the sand would have filled in the indentation where I lay for months but it hasn't.  It's just a carved out hole that the ocean water keeps flowing into and out of.  I'm afraid to touch it lest it fall apart.  But the curves look hard and solid like rough cement.  I must have laid there so long the sand solidified.

There are footprints all around the hole from the rest of my family standing beside me.  They have hardened too.  It all sort of forms a negative statue.  I never saw them beside me all those months.  I don't know who was holding them up while I was consumed with self pity and grief because it wasn't me, I am ashamed to say.  I know they were hurting as much as I was but I couldn't help myself much less them. But I know they hung around me because there are thousands of foot prints everywhere.  Some may be from friends, I just can't tell. I'm sure there must be.

I have worn a path along the beach but I've never seen the footprints until now.  How could I not have noticed?

In my walks from time to time I've seen other people laying on the beach like I was.  I didn't stop or I couldn't stop to help them because it hurt me to look at them.  I could feel their sorrow down in my bones so sharply that I started walking faster.  That's not being a caring person.  It's called self preservation I guess.  But it doesn't feel nice.  My only consolation is that they don't know I was there.

I walked in several directions towards the tree line but always came back because I felt like I was leaving something behind.  I've know others have made it to the tree line and beyond because I don't see them anymore.  I don't hear them anymore either.  I see others standing at the tree line waiting for something, a push, a pull, from someone, something.  As much as I want to get to the forest, I can't.

Maybe one day I will.


1 comment:

  1. Rose, you write beautifully. Thinking of you.

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