mousewrites

My life is split into three pieces. The first is almost a dream now. Living in the small house in the village, the smell of fish so constant I never realized it was there. My mother, my father, both browned from the sun and rough from the sea. My older brother, tall and long limbed, climbing trees or masts, kicking down through dark water to get at the fat blue oysters bedded on the bottom. My round little brother, still chubby enough to float if he fell off the boat, splashing and squealing in the waves. I remember standing on the shore, waves booming on the rocks, the stone cold and rough under my bare feet. I loved the sea, and hated it,