The cement walls of my house, the silent witnesses of my constant drama, are a light aqua-marine. They are drab and inconstant, chipped in some places, stained with mold in others, and when it rains the lower half absorbs water. The water cuts the walls in half, etching a choppy line horizontally across the walls. It encircles me. I am on an ocean, staring at my walls; the lower half a deeper aqua cut off from the lighter upper half by a rolling line of water-stain waves. Every night I float alone in the ocean of my house. No direction, no land in sight, I float in the menacing uncertainty of my ocean. Isolated in the vast expanse of the sea, I run through my nightly routines to bail the water out of my fragile raft. Some nights I just stare at the stars and try not to notice the water slowly seeping in. Looking up, I think, “A person could get lost in all that beauty.” Only one problem, if you’re not careful you can drown in it too.
Some nights I want to throw myself into the water and get lost. Every day I watch pods of dolphins frolic in the waves, pausing briefly to play with me on my raft as they make their way through the sea. I smile with them and enjoy the moment, but at night I wish I could join them. I yearn to disappear into the ocean with a silent splash and roam the waves with the dolphins.
But I can’t.
I look down at what holds me back; my raft, a few mismatched boards salvaged from an old boat slung together with frayed rope. My raft carries me and my few possessions: an old hat, a water-logged book, a movie stub from a first date. Sadly my raft is only a memory of what it was. I have had to sacrifice much to the ocean, cutting off pieces of my raft to keep it afloat. I’ve watched pieces sink silently into the sea, disappear below the murky water. My raft is a hodgepodge flotilla, and yet it is valuable. This weathered hat, this soggy book, and this faded movie ticket are all I have to remind me of land. At night I look at these objects and try to connect myself to the land, to keep the memory alive in my heart. I stare at my possessions and imagine I am back on the secure ground of home, and yet I know I am floating miles away from anything I have ever known. Sometimes I resent these objects. They hold me back from diving into the sea, and yet I could never hate my raft because it is all I have to remind who I am.
The sea can be rough, sometimes threatening to capsize my small ship, and yet…there are moments. Moments of complete serenity, when I cast my fishing line into the ocean; secure on my raft, I feel the subtle tug of a fish nibbling at what I offer and I think,
“I will be alright.”
