Dreaming of Home
The pier has been swallowed up by fog, but I don’t care.
I walk out anyway into the nothingness.
My steps into the salt air are slow, each one with a purpose, moving forward.
I cannot see where I am walking, but my feet know the way through this wet veil of mystery.
My hair is dripping with droplets of water.
My soul is saturated with shame and sorrow.
I hear the waves crashing below, crashing with no regard for anything other than perpetuating their own violence.
They pound like the anguish pounds on my heart, forever pummeling my dreams and delusions.
A lone noise comes from the north, louder than the churning sea.
It’s the fog horn, a signal to mariners that they are almost home.
I look down. My feet are invisible, consumed by the mist.
I am no longer walking but floating, floating into this unknown abyss of obscurity.
Once I reach the end, I stop, unnerved by the wrath around me.
The storm reaches its height, and I can wait no longer.
I raise my arms to the dark, swirling clouds, and surrender to the tempest.
Please. Pick me.
And she does.
She reaches for me, carefully taking my hands while pulling me towards her.
As I fall to the ground, her wisps embrace me, one at a time, closer to comfort.
My fear and my pride both transform into tears, giant wet tears uncontrollable and fierce.
She coddles and calms me.
She reassures and forgives me.
I am unworthy, but she accepts me while christening me anew.
She finally turns me around and releases me.
Unlike before, my feet do not know the way to go.
“Trust the path,” she whispers into my ear. “Trust yourself.”
Guided not by a horn but by my own inner compass, I take my first steps towards home, the gale finally left behind.