The Seashell

shell2I used to write. And then I stopped. I am not sure when exactly because most of my writing is gone. I was looking for something else yesterday and came across the only 6 pieces of writing I kept.

I don’t know where the rest is. I suppose I threw them away. I think I know why I stopped but I don’t remember why exactly.

Perhaps I will start writing again. It is a labour of love from my heart. Some was written for others, some were inspired by others, some reflect my own deeply personal journey as I have walked this road we call life. 

What I have decided to do is share what I have already written here. May they touch your heart the way they have touched mine.

The Seashell

On golden shores of shimmering sand she stops. To gaze. The silver blue ocean blends imperceptibly into the cobalt blue sky streaked with the last vestiges of the sun. And a gull cries. Her footsteps, once so visible, grow dim in the fading light. Ahead are pristine lands yet to be marked by her presence.

She stops. This time her gaze, downwards, is caught by a glint. What is it? She reaches down and gingerly sweeps through the sand. Her reward? A seashell. Soft, delicate pink with swirls of opalescence. It gently curves towards the opening that somehow carries the reminiscence of having been recently vacated.

Who lived here? Where have they gone? Why? Will they come back? The questions linger in the recesses of her mind as she mentally wanders back to her own home.

Home. A place of love. Yet little is there. Home. A place of hope. But little is left. Home. A place of dreams. Dreams. How does one hang onto their dreams when love and hope seem all but gone?

To go. To stay. In either choice is sadness and loss. To see from whence her footsteps have come. And yet no sense where they go.

Confusion. Indecision. Love. Sorrow. Fear. Desire. Hope. Anger. All united with one man, one home. Her heart says stay a little longer. Her mind says how much more can you endure. And still no path as to where her footsteps go.

The sky darkens, the sun almost gone. The moon hangs low as if carelessly flung out of bed. And the stars are once more twinkling harmoniously to an unknown song.

A lone gull cries expressing her anguish.

Her hand drops, the shell falls.

She turns, and slowly walks. Home.

Faye Wirch

November 21, 1996

 

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