I squint my eyes. A red dinghy sways on the waves on the horizon, as if on fire from the setting sun. I sigh, that’s just another one lost to the sea. A classic mistake, why do they want to die? I pick up my woven sandals and run down the sandy hills, my toes sinking deep with every step, and the wind fluttering the blue ribbons in my dark hair.
I make it down to the beach from my hilly viewpoint. I see a woman crying, standing in the waves that rock themselves up and down her blue skirt, as if the sea is a large, vast crib, trying to comfort her. She must be the mother or wife, or sister of whoever is in that dinghy. Whoever they were, they won’t make it back. I know that once a boat makes it past the rocks in the water, the sea rocks whoever or whatever dares come so far into a soaking sleep.
I turn back and begin to run towards the sand-covered church. I used to feel sadness on days like this, but by the time my back was turned to the sea I was already thinking of Father’s roast. I knew, by now, that nature had its way. And even the ringing bells of the church would one day be swallowed by the sand, or the sea, or both. As I arrive, the bells of the church ring as the sun fully sets, and I watch the dinner fire burning through the window of the church hall.
