Black Ink Pad

It seems that the sea was calling my name in my dreams last night... a vague whisper from the fingers of beckoning waves, "Psst, Gypsy... here... here..." I remember standing on the sand, and the smell of the salt air. I was waiting for...? I don't know. I could see a dark lighthouse in the distance, and beyond it, heavy storm clouds. I was cold and the wind was whipping my hair everywhere, but I couldn't move. I could only stand and wait.
Perhaps I'll drive to the ocean for my birthday on Saturday, wrap myself in an Indian blanket, and listen for what else the sea might have to tell me. I'll scatter some of John's ashes and let him travel where I can't go, let the keening of the gulls punctuate the deep grief for which I have no words.


Life does move on, steady and sure as the sea, but some things remain static. Sometimes it seems that I'm the static one; I'm the dark lighthouse, while everything and everyone around me floats, drifts, sifts and is, ultimately, carried away.


It sounds like I'm sad, but it's more a pensive state of mind. I wonder what point there is to all this thinking? Or is it just seafoam... residue of events that have washed up on my life's shore.