Journey to the Sea

I sit at an abyss that I cannot plumb or cross or gauge. It is the second watch at the darkest, coldest moment. The waning moon has completed its traverse of the sky. Moisture soddens my clothing and skin. I remember a day, as if it were yesterday.

In that day, we celebrated our youth at a spring. We dangled our toes in the water and planned our lives together. It was to be one life, complete and full. Was it love? It seemed so. Our senses were heightened. Our thoughts were common. Her look was adoring and I adored her.

The spring poured into a brook and we followed it. Along the way, we waded in pools of love and passion and moved along as it flowed. Our hands clasped. We walked, each on our side of the brook. When the water widened into a stream, we walked arm in arm on the banks.

We paused along this steam. The banks were muddy and slippery, so we moved higher and built a nest. We brought babies to the nest. She brought completeness and adorned the nest with beauty as only a woman can. I struck out from the banks and across the stream to acquire things for the nest, for the babies and for her. I returned at night to chattering little faces and the music of her voice. I loved that sound, whether happy, angry or sad.

In those years, often, I returned muddy and wet. The rainy season brought the waters high, eroding the banks. The banks became rugged and steep. Sometimes, I could not cross, and, if I did, the mud that clung to me dirtied our nest. Her passion for the nest equaled my passion for lands beyond.

The years blurred. The young ones flourished. Often I cleaned up across the stream, rather than soil the nest. Many times, I could not or would not cross. I inhabited a world far from the nest where the weather was turbulent, and the relentless, torrential quest consumed me. One day, desperately ill, I returned, determined to cross, and could not. I realized I could never cross again.

We spoke across the stream. We discussed the plans for our lives, and, she believed. I spoke sincerely. She was patient. But the stream, now a river was swollen and it frightened her, and swept me on a journey to the sea. We kept hope, for there were miles of mountains and deserts before the river reached the sea.

We shouted. And across the torrent we threw messages attached to stones. She lingered on the western bank. She brought ropes, as did others, but in the turbulence, I never caught them. I spoke often, but my words drowned in the crash of the river and the wail of the wind. At last, she became impatient. She moved the babies and the nest westward, away from the roaring river. The rocks we then threw fell short into the foam.

Now the river flowed through a canyon. I hiked down the canyon trail, far down, past mules and hikers, to cross to the western side. Along the way were different climates where plants could grow. I grew small amounts of food to carry across the river and up the canyon wall. But the season changed and the rapids intoxicated me. I climbed the trail back up the eastern wall.

One day, at the top and weary, I gazed to the western side, where she was a mere speck. Another moved closer to her, and together they planted a garden. It grew and greened but abruptly dried and browned in a tragic flash of lightning. Again, she moved alone with her colors westerly in the remaining light.

I whispered, “I love you.”

I waved and looked for her wave. But I was only returning her wave of years ago. So I remained on the eastern side, across a canyon, across a river I would never cross. Shadows of night darkened my portion of sky.

I inch away from an abyss between my portion of earth and the sea. I remember my home, my former life. The raging river, which some navigate with wild abandon, has battered and wrecked me. The river has arrived at the sea.

Now I sit at an abyss that I cannot cross or plumb or gauge. It is the second watch, the coldest, darkest moment, when the waning moon has completed its traverse of the sky. I wrap myself in my blanket, for it is now my home. I know, but do not care, that morning will come.