whirlpool

She sits.

The ocean crashes on the rocks.

The memories wash over her.

A boy.

No. Not a boy. The boy.

The one who got her into this mess.

The one who stole her heart the moment she laid eyes on him.

Her boy.

No. Not her boy. Her son.

Her son, who knew nothing but love.

Her son, the one that turned her world upside down.

His father.

Her other love.

A sailor.

She should hate the ocean.

But she doesn’t.

The water that laps around her feet

Is not the same water that took her boy away from her.

No. Not her boy. Her son.

Her life.

A simple trip.

Her son.

Begging to go with his father,

On the big boat.

His father.

Agreeing, for it was the boy’s birthday.

A storm.

Out of nowhere.

Raging, tossing the big boat around like it was nothing.

To the ocean, it was nothing.

But to her

It was everything.

The realization.

When she realized that the boat wasn’t coming back.

The tears.

Flooding every inch of her.

Drowning her.

Oh, the irony.

The waves.

Constantly ebbing and flowing.

She longed to join them.

To be reborn

Of seafoam and salt.

But she didn’t.

She sat.
The waves crashing on the rocks.

Anger.

Anger at the ocean.

Anger at her son.

Anger at his father.

And then

Anger at herself.

She went home.

Slept.

Wept.

She sits.

The ocean crashes on the rocks.

A bird screeches.

She is drawn out of her whirlpool of memories.

She picks up a stone.

Whispers.

And throws it into the ocean.

Letting go.

Breathing.

Living.