She whispers her secrets to the sand, digging beneath desiccated surfaces with a discarded scallop shell. She digs deep to where the sand has lost all independence. Here, each gleaming glass-like grain becomes one grey mass which she can extract by the handful.
She buries her feet. Pats the sand tight all around. Her toes feel mother ocean’s heartbeat, that ever-present pulse. That constant, nagging beat calling her wave children home.
Eventually, they must depart, evaporating one drop at a time, gathering into clouds, brothers and sisters merging and moving as one, going wherever the wind takes them.
Mother ocean does not despair, watching billions of her children suddenly change and take off. She knows they will return to earth as fog or rain, sleet or snow. Her offspring will eventually revert to the form they once were and find their way back, slowly seeping through the wayward years or tripping, rapid-fire down a waterfall, tumbling into a creek, rushing into rivers and riding the currents home.
That ever-present pulse. That constant, nagging beat.
A plover sprints along the shore line. A wave is recalled.
She extracts her feet, whispers her secrets to the sand, covers them over and pats them down.
But as she watches, mother ocean’s playful children congregate upon her secrets’ tomb, unearthing it to lay her truth bare. She feels a ray of hope blooming over her like the first few rays of sunshine as they bend to coax this good and gentle earth awake.
This was written for this week’s Write on Edge prompt:
“If you must speak ill of another, do not speak it, write it in the sand near the water’s edge.”