A Picture of Home
by Miranda Angelski
It is louder than a train passing only inches from our faces. It splashes in our ears, surrounding our eardrums. Its continuous roar is like nothing else I have ever heard; it is persistent and it seems it will never falter. It is all around us, even though the sharp and twisting rocks of the cove contain it; it still manages to touch my toes, before it falls back and hits the water below it, shocking me with its thunderous sound. The water is so dark; it looks like it is a solid wall of black, unrelenting and unforgiving. That is not how it feels when I am here, my nostrils fill with the scent of salt, and freedom. The entirety of it is overwhelming, it spans out in all directions. It looks like it could swallow up this little piece of cove; our land, our home.
I moisten my lips, tasting the ocean on them. It sometimes takes me a moment to distinguish the sky from water, the lines merge and mix no sign of separation; the late evening is the worst for this, right after dusk where there is still light but no yellow or pinky hues. I fidgeted, itching to swim, but I knew this was not the place. This water was too unforgiving, it would swallow me up. We had a distant relationship, I could hear her roar from my bedroom, and on the long walks through town, it gave life and it took life. I breathed in ocean air as I thought of those three boys from town last year, fell under the water, away from the cove. No this water was best to admire, and fear.
The bottom of my jeans were soaked in sea water, I turned towards him, the corners of his eyes fanning out, displaying his age; he stretched his arm out pointing towards the vast space in front of us. “If you look closely from here you might just be able to see Ireland.”