- Vol. 03
- Chapter 09
The Sea Calls Me
I have always been curious about the sea.
My mother drowned to her death on my third birthday, after which Pa vowed never to let us taste the salt of the sand again. "Evil, evil, that water!" he would shout, sometimes in his sleep, other times when Michael asked if we could go play on the beach.
I did not bother him. After all, mother remained alive in the sand I had been preserving in the bottles on my windowsill. You see, every year, on the third of March, I see her. I hear her, too. She swims to the shore and summons me to her side, her hair taking on the colour of the sand. She never grows old.
It is true what they say about water; it has no foes. I know this because the water never fails to send mother to me on my birthday.
If you look closely at the bottles, you will notice that the sand never looks the same. Mother comes to me with a handful—grace, she calls it. Last year, she said, "You will come to understand soon."
Today, I turn 24. The tide is low this evening, and the Sun seems to be at peace with the waves. Mother is not here yet, and I have run out of space on the window. Perhaps the time has come.
I am going to meet her.
These bottles should be sufficient for Pa.