In the dark wash of the sea I hear a voice again. An old familiar. A reasonable voice. Calm and clear. But, I know (I remember, in the bones of my bones), full of damage and fear. A voice that asks, whispers, “How can this be? Think about it. Think, my friend. There must be something wrong. Look, listen. Be careful, dear one, tread light. The way is treacherous and pitted with pain. Are you prepared? Are you strong? Why risk so much for so little. Why travel such a road? Why, why why?”
And I rock in the waves, the voice a current beneath, and I rock. And wonder. And weep that the voice is not banished. And sing to myself a lullaby. Soothing and soft in the dark. And hum with the song of the sea. That siren song of wash and ebb. Of flow and swallow. And of moon and mist strung stars. And I pay attention to the low shush of the water and hope it will drown more this time. Drown the voice and ceaseless whispering. Drown the doubt and the shame and ache of it all. And perhaps, when the tide is gone, I’ll be, just me, on the shore again.