It might have been the silence sitting on top of the ocean like a fog; looking back on that moment she could never put her finger on it. What always remained was how sharp the air was that morning, the way it stung her cheeks and creeped into her clothes. The ocean — and the air surrounding it — relentlessly invaded her space. It was her space though, her hide-a-way, and watching the water’s movement swelling under the surface of the ocean always put her in a trance.
There was a lot to think about and there was no option anymore, no more putting it off. It was unsettling knowing she had procrastinated too long. So here she sat. Watching and waiting. The water, her old friend, reliably had a way of reaching in and pulling her thoughts clear. Heading to the ocean’s edge was a dearly held ritual. She stilled herself and let the tide reach it’s silent fingers into her thoughts and pull them free and unknotted.
Her eyes opened at the sound of footsteps behind her. Inhaling the sharp ocean air one last time she reached down and grabbed her bag — the knotted thoughts left behind her on the ocean’s edge.
The day had started and she knew it was time.
