Allison's Archives

Like all dutiful children, there was a time when I almost drowned.
A case of unhelpful coordination and fear of bodies larger than I. 
Unpredictable forces beyond my coaxing.
Elements that make me and surround me.
What is it like living with something you know has the capacity to send you to your maker? 

Ask me what I’m afraid of and I will tell you it is the ocean.
I permit you to laugh when you recall that I grew up on an island.
Then ask me why.
I am afraid that when the eighth month is upon us, the ocean will separate us.
Do not make the mistake of assuming I will not hold on to you.
I will leave claw marks around your wrists.
This is your home now but it has never been mine.
My tongue has tasted more humidity under the very same sun.
And you will say to me, endearingly, with your hands around my face—
because this is who you are—
that the ocean is nothing to be afraid of.
That you have more patience than it has water.
You will ruin your best shirt and tear open your chest to show me that you, too, are made of water.
You will make me want to cry.
For a moment a wave of comfort will wash over me but it will not last.
Because how can you be sure—
That the ocean will not dilute my words?
That the sails will be adjusted correctly to bring me back to you?
Did your fictitious god make you this promise or did you learn the ropes from your father?
How can we be sure of anything at all?

The only thing that is certain—
that the ocean will bring to you as it separates us—
are my tears.
I was born to leave just like every beautiful sight in autumn
but all I do is try to stay.

Image sourced from Ryan Lynham.