Shorty short story

The Mediterranean Sea plays a soothing sun drenched lullabye, rippling around the tattered collection of old wooden fishing boats that shelter haphazardly in the small cove, sending them bobbing gently like apples.

A woman lies basking on a miniature pier that stretches over the tranquil water. She lies on a towel that only partially protects her from the splinters that spike out of the weather-worn planks of the deck.

An apologetic phantom of a better time, the pier hints at a bygone era of prosperity. Now the cove possesses a reassuringly relaxing sense of neglect; the perfect spot to let the sun massage away any remnants of work day tension.

A battered paperback book lies un-touched next to her as she lets her mind drift to a place with no thoughts, no deadline and no worries. She finally achieves the complete absence of conscious thought that she has battled vainly to achieve in the weekly meditation classes she shoe-horns in between meetings.

Giggles, shrieks and splashes bring her thoughts crashing back to the cove. Tentatively opening her eyes she peers out at the sea through her over-sized sunglasses. A small group of children are playing in the water. Diving, squirming and dunking, they are finding joy in everything around them. A small boy with the dark colouring of a local is standing on one of the boats, sending it rocking from side to side with hoots of exultant laughter.

Idly the woman thinks about telling him to get off the boat, as it’s dangerous, but it’s a half hearted thought that quickly dissipates. Around the boat the other children dive as sleek and cheeky as sea lions, darting glances towards their leader balancing on the boat, eager for any crumbs of approval.

Feeling a bold sense of invisibility the woman watches the playful display. The blond and sun pinked children of tourists mix effortlessly with the dark haired local kids. The universal language of childhood banishing any need to understand each other’s spoken tongues.

A young voice causes the woman to visibly jump and she looks down to find one of the fair haired little sea lions hanging on the side of the pier. She feels slightly flustered, as if she’s been caught doing something she shouldn’t.

“Hello, don’t I know you?” the girl repeats, looking at her as if she’s the slow kid in class.

“I don’t think so” she replies, trying to imbue as much adult authority as she can in to those 4 words.

“Aren’t you Hannah’s mum?” the girl insists undeterred

“No” the woman replies wishing the girl would go back to playing with the other kids. The intensity of her questioning is making her uncomfortable

“Take off your sunglasses” the girl orders in a tone that hints at Christmas trees sheltering her entire Santa wish-list. The woman obliges without a second thought. “Oh you’re right you’re not Hannah’s mum. Where are your children?”

The woman feels inexplicable guilt, as if she has somehow let this strange child down by not being able to supply additional playmates.

“I don’t have any children”

“Oh” the girl responds, releasing the deck and splashing back into the water. Without a “good-bye” or backward glance she is quickly back, another set of thrashing limbs in the spontaneously created marine playground.

The woman watches for a few more seconds, absently slipping the sun glasses back on her nose. She lies back down on the towel, determined to regain her meditative calm. But try as she might she continues to feel unsettled. She wants the strange emotions to go away. She wants to ignore the strange aching sensation in her womb.

Lying on the pier she turns her mind to her deadlines, her obligations and the to-do list that will inevitably be waiting for her when she gets back to the office. Slowly the reassuring knot of stress returns, burying any unwelcome emotions emanating from her lonely womb.

Sonnet for My Grandmother

I wrote the following poem many years ago after my grandmother died. She meant the world to me:

In memory of Krystyna Markiewicz

Are the gates of heaven a wonder to behold
Worth all the pain and suffering of this world?
Or is death as the unbelievers have foretold,
An end to all existence young or old?
Blank silence echoes my softly spoken question.
Perhaps this stillness is your bleak reply.
And yet my soul rejects this harsh conclusion
As I'll hug your essence to me 'til I die.
For in my life your life has ressurection
And in all people that your spirit touched.
They all remember you with deep affection
And in their memories you're never lost.
When I with tearful eyes your portrait see
I see the goodness I long to be in me.