Barrier Island
At the beach house your parents bought before you were born the ocean sloshes over sea oats. It's February, flat dull as mud.
We walk the narrow beach, ancient sharks' teeth spread over the sand like ash. Requiem sharks you say they're called for schooling so close to the surface. I look for dark flashes in the low tide, in the long arm of the inlet.
That evening I make soup in a pine and linoleum kitchen. Rain pelts the house as if to wound it. The ocean is more awake now, teasing the picture window. Sometimes it slaps too hard.
Later you light a fire we don't stay up to watch. Under the white spread all night I hear the ocean gaining ground.
I will not know you old like the ocean knows this house.
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Author's Note
Published in Tattoo Highway 9
Other stories by Dianne McKnight-Warren
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Cozy times with surprises and hints of ageless mystery.
Makes me miss the ocean more than ever in my also beautiful mountain desert world. *
Excellent.
Lovely, solemn.
I feel a chill and a wave.*
I like what Erika said. "Solemn."
Thank you Mathew. I always love/enjoy all your comments on Fictionaut. They illuminate.
Thank you Beate. It's always an honor for me when you read my work.
Thank you Gary. I appreciate your continued unwavering support.
Thank you Erika. Solemn is right. Never thought of that exact word regarding this but it's perfect for it.
Thank you Tiim. In the context of my life "chill and wave" is exactly what happened that night, in that order.
Thank you Angela. Thanks for reading and commenting.
"Rain pelts the house as if to wound it. "
Beautiful writing. Resonates.
Thank you Darryl
The last line.
Thank you Kitty.