We Used To Be Nothing At All
The whistling of the boats’ masts sounds like adolescent screaming. The sea has gotten angry at me again. I’ve been away from her too long. Forgot to come by for oblations. Forgot to come by and love her. To appreciate her furious curves and give my vows to keep returning here. To promise that no harbour is greater than her, no solace will ever be sweeter than her.
Strands of hair poke the gloss of my eyes, and the wind she’s sent my way messes with my vision. I look at the castles staring brightly at me and her, facing her much more bravely than I’d recommend if asked. It’s good I haven’t been. The windows are tall as mountains on the horizon would be. I look into them and am enchanted by rice-paper lamps reaching planetary size and high hung landscape paintings, many green portrayals of her.
I think of Versailles. Things around me feel so grand. Her vastness, these houses, this city. It’s so old and small for everyone else, but so Paris to me. Its parks too elegant for the latitude and the breeze still too warm. Up North, the season’s already turned. Frost is making its way down, but not for a good while. She keeps us warmer here. Keeps us on our toes with her whims.
I fancy her. I want to be like her. I want her to teach me not to hold on to things, to let the tide wash those ashore. But she’s a hypocrite too. She takes and takes. These days, she doesn’t give much.
She’s beautiful, feared, and distant. If you get too close, too comfortable, she will sweep you off your feet. In delighted exclamations you’ll laugh, float, believe in her divine hold, and then she’ll overpower you: slam you into the seabed, gush into your throat, take refuge in your lungs. And she’ll have you.
Me and her, we’ve made a truce. She’s in my blood. She has my grandfather, and she has my word, and a little more, that I’ll keep returning. I’ll only keep longing for her.
Tonight, I walk away from her, and for what it’s worth, she’ll hold on to me until I’m sheltered by brick and stone.
The trees here are strange. A few eager yellow leaves, wrong to my eyes, have already found the darkened pavement. She’s sent one more wave of goodbyes. I glance at the lamppost ahead and notice the glow streaked by the showers from the shaken branches. I step under them, facing up. Feeling the drops on my cheeks. Letting her mock me gently:
“Cry, stupid girl, cry. If you won’t, I’ll make you.”
I smile. It’s what we both want.
One of the warmly lit windows on my left presents a sculpted man standing in front of a gallery wall. I turn the corner and cross another park. This one’s on a hill. What will it look like when frozen over? Will it be very hard to hike in heels?
Deep in thought, I’m startled by the rustling of leaves, perhaps of fabric, perhaps of nothing at all. I whip my head around. There’s a man. He’s a few steps behind, avoiding my eyes. A few steps later, there’s no one in the storefront reflection.
I have a ghost, I conclude. One I’ve been trying to shake off but keep speaking into existence, thinking into materialisation.
Today, we learned H is not really a letter. It is life breathed into a vowel. It felt much more monumental than it really was. After all, I am the mistress of bringing the dead back to life.
That’s why I need her teachings.
Once she has you, it’s brutal, beautiful, and quickly over.
