the storm
I have always believed the sea is a language. Its absence on my tongue exposed the pain of distance. I once knew it as passive: glistening like oil under the heat of the sun’s rays. Light settled on its surface without breaking. And I, I was unwaveringly enamoured by the pulse of the current dancing beneath the waves – the rhythm of its breath . I ebb ed and flow ed against it every summer – like a child helplessly engrossed with the never-ending game of push - and - pull. Be still my beating heart . For the long est time, I yearned for the quiet of its horizon to teach me its steadiness. But some silences do not soothe; they foreshadow . Yes, we all remember days where the water was mostly quiet: a sheet of living glass . But we...